


Synchronicity

by manic_intent



Category: Pacific Rim (2013), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pacific Rim Fusion, Erik would get it, M/M, That Pacific Rim AU where only mutants can enter the Drift, or at least, up until Wade Wilson, where if it was possible to get a negative score on the compatibility scale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-21 19:36:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik waits with careful patience outside Marshall Fury's office, his shoulders pressed to the metal hull of Shatterdome Anchorage's corridor. He breathes in, slowly, and then out, and all in all, he doesn't exactly <i>mean</i> to eavesdrop, he tells himself, it's just that he's early, and Marshall Fury isn't exactly making an effort to be quiet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Синхронизация](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3474734) by [cherik_and_fassavoy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherik_and_fassavoy/pseuds/cherik_and_fassavoy)



> The idea for this fic is from @molecularmonster and @manderkat on twitter. ;3

I.

Erik waits with careful patience outside Marshall Fury's office, his shoulders pressed to the metal hull of Shatterdome Anchorage's corridor. He breathes in, slowly, and then out, and all in all, he doesn't exactly _mean_ to eavesdrop, he tells himself, it's just that he's early, and Marshall Fury isn't exactly making an effort to be quiet.

"… You _know_ that I can handle the neural load by myself," an unfamiliar voice with a posh English accent notes reasonably. "I don't need a co-pilot."

"The neural load isn't my concern, Xavier," Fury snaps, and on a scale of one to Fury, in Erik's experience, Fury's near critical right now. Telepaths are rare, and treated like they're cast of gold and porcelain, even in the tight ship that Fury runs in Anchorage, but a telepath that _doesn't_ need to share the neural load? Whoever Xavier is, his ability has to be spectacular.

Still, either this 'Xavier' is wildly blind for his caliber or he's - rightfully - used to having everything his way in his own Shatterdome. "It should be," Xavier says, just as reasonably. "You've seen my records, I presume."

"And Logan and I both agree," Fury growls, "That you need a co-pilot."

There's silence on Xavier's end for a moment, then an exhalation. "May I ask why?"

"You're an excellent telepath, Xavier, probably the best, and you know that. But while I might agree to allow, say, _Nate Summers_ the right to deploy without a co-pilot if he could handle the load, you lack the most essential aspect of a fighter. You don't have a killing instinct."

"On the contrary-"

"You've got two kills in three drops, both with backup from Wolverine Phoenix," Fury states curtly. "But your battle instincts need a hell of a lot of work, and you only seem motivated when your target's past the yellow zone. You're too easily distracted. Like I said, you have no killing instinct, and Logan agrees."

"Helping people evacuate out of the vicinity is-"

" _Not_ your concern, Xavier. The coast guard have jobs for a fucking _reason_."

There's a longer silence now, and Xavier lets out a sigh. "Very well, Marshall. I suppose you might as well introduce me to the gentleman waiting outside your door." 

Fury raises his voice, seemingly unsurprised. "Get in here, Lehnsherr."

Erik strides into the office, saluting Marshall Fury with a sharp jerk of his wrist - it's been nearly a year into the Jaeger Academy, and he still hasn't quite managed to assimilate into the militaristic customs of the Pan Pacific Defense Corps. "Sir."

Fury's standing before his HUD console, but Xavier remains seated, thighs neatly crossed, his soft hands startlingly pale against his charcoal trousers. He's a slight man, almost small, his back primly upright, brilliantly blue eyes watching Erik with a telepath's abstracted curiosity, his thick mop of walnut hair feathering over his brow. Then he smiles faintly, with his uncommonly lush mouth, and turns back to Fury.

"We're not going to be compatible."

Erik stiffens, but Fury arches an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"You don't seem surprised."

"I might be surprised that you could come to a conclusion without having tried the handshake."

"Telepaths are a required component of the neural handshake because of our ability to reach out and link our minds to another human being, Marshall. But a successful handshake doesn't simply depend on the telepath. The co-pilot needs to be receptive."

"And Lehnsherr here isn't?"

"It's not my intention to seem offensive," Xavier says mildly, "But I've never before met a non-telepath who is so… rigorously closed off. Personal trauma perhaps? He has a great deal of natural anger. It's poison to a successful neural handshake."

Erik clenches his hands, but when Fury snaps his gaze to him, he relaxes, very slowly, and folds his hands behind his back, pretending to step into parade rest. Fury turns back to Xavier, his jaw set. "And there's nothing you can do? You don't need a co-pilot, after all. Surely you can handle a neural handshake with an non-receptive co-pilot. All you need to do," Fury adds, when Xavier frowns very slightly, "Is to keep Lehnsherr here synced to the jaeger, and to handle as much of the neural load by yourself as you can in the process."

"Ah," Curiosity curls warm and slow into Xavier's face - he smiles slightly. "This is about the Onslaught project?"

"I thought that you knew," Fury grunts.

"I don't make it a habit of abusing my abilities, Marshall Fury. I respect your privacy, along with everyone else's." Xavier taps his knee lightly, pale fingers drumming an arrhythmic staccato. "I heard that the delay was technical in nature." 

"You heard the story that we put out in order to keep our funding," Marshall Fury says sourly. "There's no one out there with Lehnsherr's abilities. To me, he's far more valuable than _you_ , Xavier. Maybe you should let that sink in. He _has_ to pilot Onslaught Exodus, regardless of his compatibility scores."

"So this wasn't about me after all," Xavier smiles then - he's amused, Lehnsherr notes, with a touch of irritation, as though the fate of the world is simply a mental puzzle. "That's interesting."

"There's a test run tomorrow," Fury states shortly. "Get comfortable in your new quarters, but you're here to work, Xavier."

"Not to seem pessimistic," Xavier pushes up from the chair, "But perhaps you should rethink your trade, Marshall Fury." He tips his head to Lehnsherr politely, then he ambles out of the room, for all the world like a visiting scientist in his non-regulation tweed suit and vest. 

When he's gone, Fury settles down tiredly into his chair, as though anger is all that's been keeping him animated, and he rubs a hand briefly over his face. "Xavier is your solution?" Erik asks politely.

"He is. Thoughts?"

"I don't like him."

Fury smiles thinly. "You're not exactly a sunny individual, Lehnsherr. That's part of the fucking problem. But we're gambling on you, and if I have to test every single telepath in the world with you to make this work, I will. Xavier happens to be our best and obvious choice."

"You traded Riptide Frost for him?" That explained the conspicuous gap in the jaeger berths.

Fury nods, rubbing at the bridge of his nose again. "You weren't compatible with Frost, remember? And according to Reed, the next projected emergence event is in two weeks." 

"But if the handshake with Xavier isn't successful," Lehnsherr points out, "Then Summers and Wilson will be on their own."

"So _make_ sure that it's successful, Lehnsherr." Fury says sourly. "Get some rest. And for the love of everything that's holy, _don't_ fuck this up."

1.0.

Charles sends Raven a quick text to tell her that he's all right, and hopefully prevent her from trying to stage an intervention and fly down from Lima. He's not too interested in being disturbed, for now, so he gently turns away the minds of those around him as he explores the berths.

There's a conspicuous absence where Riptide Frost used to be, judging from the scent of lingering machine lubricant and ozone, and he studies the empty berth briefly for a moment before turning to look at the filled one some distance away from it, teeming with maintenance crew. Domino Cable, a rather whimsically named Mark-3 Jaeger, sits quietly in its berth, painted in red, black and silver, a solid testament to Marshall Fury's tendency to gamble on unpredictable odds and win. 

If it wasn't for telepathy, Charles would never have noticed Wade Wilson's approach. He absently tries to turn Wilson's mind away, as well, only to straighten up as he feels his mental suggestion slide off a barrier. Wilson's shielded up, and if Charles feels around the edges of it, he can see Summers' signature. 

It's not unusual for jaeger teams to stay linked up for hours at a time even outside of a Conn-Pod, just to stay in practice and keep up a synchronous link, but Charles senses from the solid weight of Summers' work that - oddly enough - Summers is linked _all_ the time to Wilson, or something close to it. It's unsettling, though he still manages to smile when Wilson ambles up to his side.

"Wade," Wilson sticks out a gloved palm. He's only slightly taller than Charles, all corded muscle and a dancer's grace under a tight black vest and combat trousers tucked into large boots. There's a pair of katanas strapped incongruously to his back, and he's a handsome young man, his grin lazy and infectious.

"Charles," Charles shakes his hand, feels the weight and strength of it.

"You're the new blood?"

"I suppose that I am." Charles tries not to look too curious. 

Wade Wilson is the only human ever to have qualified for the Jaeger Program, proof of a strange sort of lateral thinking on Fury's part. Neurologically damaged after a battle with a Category III kaiju with a mutated neurospike capacity - prior to the introduction of statshield hulls to the Conn-Pods - Domino Cable's telepath, Nathan Summers, had been left unable to hold a stable neural handshake with his then-partner, Neena Thurman. 

Fury had apparently tried every single Jaeger Academy cadet - and some who weren't even in the program - and then, for some reason, had decided to try a line up of random humans whom he had met during his days as a SHIELD operative, despite the overwhelming bulk of jaeger test statistics stating that humans were unable to forge successful neural links. 

Despite the odds, a neural link with Wilson had somehow held stable. The Jaeger program's scientists were still trying to figure out why, but Wilson looked happy enough.

"Nate was going to talk to you," Wilson taps at his temple pointedly, "But he's being checked up."

"Is he all right?"

"Routine check." Wilson wiggles his fingers. "Was my turn yesterday, now it's his. Been a couple of months, but the screwballs over in Jaeger tech are still trying to figure out why we tick. I keep telling them that it's our shared love of chimichangas, but they don't want to take my word for it."

Charles smiles wryly. "Not even Doctor Reed will be able to deduce a compatibility algorithm from the two of you, I think."

"Isn't stopping him from trying," Wilson shrugs. "Tomorrow, huh?"

"Tomorrow?"

"You're gonna do the psychic tango with the German?"

Charles hesitates for a moment before he correlates the reference. "I'm going to _try_." 

"What are the chances?"

"Low," Charles admits, with a sigh. "I don't know what Fury thinks will happen." 

"Yeah," Wilson nods, which surprises him. "They tried Nate first. Didn't work. Even with Nate's… problem, Nate said that the German's too closed off." Wilson hops up onto a crate, perching on it like a weirdly coiled bird. "The scores don't lie. Apparently, if it was possible to score lower than zero on the test, Lehnsherr would be it."

Charles internalises another sigh. He had thought as much: though he hadn't _quite_ thought it _this_ bad. Scoring an absolute zero on the compatibility persotests had to be a new record for the books. "Do you know what happened? To him?"

Wilson shrugs. "What happened to all of us, of course. World got fucked. Kaiju took away our nice things." There's a hungry gleam in Wilson's eyes, like the edge of a storm of mayhem - it doesn't look quite sane, and Charles fights the urge to tense up. "That'll be my guess."

"You don't know?"

"Man keeps to himself," Wilson jerks his thumb at the far end of the hangar, where heavy construction is still taking place in a berth swarming over with Jaeger techs. "Call me cynical, but d'you think that's going to save the world? One jaeger?"

"I heard that they found a metallurgist pilot whose affinity with metal allows him to exceed and enhance existing jaeger sync tech, at least in the simulations," Charles recalls. "Which will theoretically allow him to bridge the final barrier between man and jaeger. What I wasn't told," Charles noted dryly, "Was that I was meant to be his telepath."

"Didn't realize that when they didn't ship over _your_ shiny giant robot?" Wilson notes, looking amused.

"I thought perhaps that I was meant to get interviewed by Marshall Fury first," Charles admits, because he's never been too interested in the horse trading that tends to take place between Shatterdomes.

Wilson smirks. "For a telepath, you don't know shit."

"I'm a _polite_ telepath," Charles counters.

"And a damn good one, I hear." Wilson tilts his head. "When did you realize that you didn't need a co-pilot? Logan just stash you in the Conn-Pod alone for fun? Not that I would put that against Logan."

"My sister was meant to be my co-pilot," Charles admits. "During our first neural handshake, she… chased the rabbit. LOCCENT never noticed until I told them - all systems remained stable."

"If you could keep your sister under," Wilson muses, "Enough for nothing to trigger, maybe you could do the same for Lehnsherr."

Charles shudders. The very thought's abhorrent: even the memory of the failed handshake is not one that he likes to revisit. "No, I - my sister was in a mental panic. She was lost in her - in _our_ memories. I had to shut her down, take over completely, keep her stable. I could only do that because she trusted me absolutely: we've been sharing thoughts since we were children. I could never do that to another person without hurting them. And besides," he adds, awkwardly, "What would be the point, then? I might as well pilot my own jaeger."

"Funny how that turned out," Wilson notes thoughtfully. "Failing the handshake."

"Some people seem compatible until the actual dress rehearsal," Charles points out wryly. At least Marshall Logan was kind enough to retain Raven on staff.

"And some people never seem compatible _until_ the dress rehearsal," Wilson adds, his grin suddenly sharp. "So I wouldn't really dismiss the German outright. Maybe."

"You're friends?" Charles arches an eyebrow. He hadn't exactly gotten that impression.

"He doesn't have friends." Wilson hops off the crate. "But call it a vested interest." He taps Charles on the shoulder, and winks. "I'm not sure that I want to be in the last jaeger standing on this _charming_ bit of the Pacific in two weeks, just saying."

II.

Xavier somehow manages to look even smaller in his drivesuit, though his smile is friendly enough under his visor. Erik can feel the delicate circuitry under the polycarbonite shell that Xavier is wearing, and he breathes out slowly as they wait for the suit up to finish. Anticipation ripples under his skin, and it's a bit of a challenge to keep himself from reaching out, to touch every inch of the fantastically massive metal cage that they're about to step into.

They're not yet linked, not even yet dropped into Onslaught Exodus, of course: this is only the rigged up Conn-Pod, but when the drivesuit techs finally step away and they step heavily into the chamber, it still feels as though he's a stage closer to what he wants. What he _needs_. 

Xavier is staring at him oddly, his red lips thinned in a flat line, and Erik grits his teeth, breathing out, trying to let go of the morass of temper-anticipation-hate-violence that has curled tight within him the moment he had first put on the circuitry suit. But then they're locking into place, control panels and HUDs coming online, and he breathes in, grinning sharply, breathes out. 

Maybe this will _work_.

"Lehnsherr," Xavier begins, as the final sync lines dip and curl into place, a lover's embrace of metal and chrome, "In the Drift, you can share whatever you like. I won't chase the rabbit. But you _will_ need to share."

"I know," Erik says curtly, and jerks in the grasp of the piloting sync as the Conn-Pod drops; Charles merely shifts his weight absently, on automatic, and for a moment, Erik is so envious of his obvious real experience that he grits his teeth.

"Yes, you _know_ ," Xavier notes patiently, "But you're still trying to keep me out. I won't hurt you, Lehnsherr. But you can't keep yourself isolated."

"Just do what you're here for," Erik retorts, and this time he finds his footing and braces just before impact, listening to the whispers and clicks and whirrs of his beautiful machine pulling them into place, becoming dormant rather than fully asleep. "Keep me synced."

"I can't just-" Xavier begins, but Fury interrupts.

"Attempting neural handshake in five."

"Marshall," Xavier objects, "I really don't think-"

"Stay focused, Xavier. Four. Three. Two…" 

Erik _feels_ the word _one_ rather than senses it, and for a moment, he drowns, abruptly submerged, his vision's gone in a whirlwind of images, a lifetime of sensation; he sees a massive, stately old house on a huge set of estates, a blue-skinned girl laughing, white-teeth, and then _he's_ in a lecture hall, talking gibberish in front of ranks of students and this is not his life, _not his life_ , Magda, Anya-

Very far away, on the edge of his hearing, a harsh voice is snapping, "Lehnsherr's chasing the rabbit! Xavier, stabilize him! Maria-"

" _Erik_ ," There's a voice in his head, stern and unfamiliar and familiar all at once, "Erik, _concentrate_ , help me, I'm trying to hold- don't you want this? I can feel how much you want to be a full Ranger… _Erik_. Calm your mind. _Calm your mind_."

Jaegers. Charles Xavier. He struggles to surface, to reach the voice, but then he's blindsided by another memory, and this one's his own: he's standing in the market square of Vinnitsa, surrounded by fires and ruin, and all he wants to do is-

He finds that he's still screaming as the cords and cables disengage from his back, and something metallic presses briefly over his arm before he flinches and lashes out blindly with his ability. Xavier lets out a yelp of pain some distance away, thrown, and this jerks Erik out of his panic and rage and fear like a dousing shock of cold water. He pulls blindly out of the cradle of metal, whirling, but Xavier is already ruefully picking himself up from the hull of the Conn-Pod.

"I would say," he notes calmly as ever to the Conn-Pod, "That the neural handshake was a spectacular failure even in my experience. Quick thinking with the failsafe, Marshall."

Fury grunts, and Erik registers the low thrum around them: Onslaught Exodus has been powered down externally. He feels bile wedge in his throat and swallows hard, breathing deep until he feels his stomach settle. "Marshall-"

"The world has fifteen known telepaths," Fury says sourly. "And I've tried three, one of which is supposed to be the best of the fucking lot."

"Could try Jean Grey," Erik hears Maria Hill suggest, if without much enthusiasm.

"Assuming that Logan's willing to let go of his precious co-pilot," Fury snorts. "Get Martha Franklin on the line first."

"Actually," Xavier pipes up, to Erik's surprise, "I'll like to try again."

"That's very charitable of you, Xavier," Fury growls, "But that neural handshake was even worse than the results with Frost and Summers. If that failsafe hadn't been there, Lehnsherr here would have put one of Onslaught Exodus' fists through Mission Control, which would have been so fucking fun for everyone and sundry."

"I'm still your best chance," Xavier disagrees. "Fly in the other telepaths if you like, but in the meantime, I'll like to try a few alternatives."

"What alternatives?" Erik demands, narrowing his eyes, but Xavier isn't even looking at him.

"… Fine," Fury mutters. "Do what you like, you're on permanent loan, anyway. Maria, get in contact with Franklin. Someone get me a line to Logan: I suppose we had better fucking ship Xavier's Mystique Cerebro over, just in case. The two of you, get out of kit. Dismissed."

The HUD displays go quiet, even as a tremor under their feet indicates that the Conn-Pod is being disengaged. Erik exhales tightly, glaring at Xavier, but the telepath's seemingly absorbed in studying the fitout of the Conn-Pod.

"What alternatives?" Erik repeats flatly.

"A neural handshake is often a… confronting experience, even for the most compatible of pilots," Xavier notes absently, as though reading off a script. "The key is to try to bring nothing to the drift, and yet everything. No ego, no pain or memories, but a willingness to trust. To connect."

"You seemed certain in Fury's office that we weren't compatible."

"I think," Xavier glances briefly at him, "That even if Fury flies in all the telepaths in the world, nothing is going to work, not conventionally. So we'll have to try another way." Erik staggers when the Conn-Pod locks back at base, but Xavier doesn't even shift, ambling out as the blast lock disengages and lets them out into the drivesuit room.

"What makes you so helpful all of a sudden?"

"I understand why you want this." Xavier lifts a shoulder, his impossibly blue eyes warm and annoyingly sympathetic. "I felt that much."

"I don't need your pity," Erik spits, and strides out, forcing the drivesuit techs to trail after him in an effort to help him out of the battlesuit. He takes another breath to steady himself, and clenches his hands. Some time in the Kwoon room would settle down the violence humming under his skin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ergh so sleepy. I'll edit again tomorrow. 
> 
> Note: I just realized that Martha Franklin is NOT a mutant, but er, I claim AU privileges D: She is a mutant in this 'verse.

2.0.

The biting cold outside serves to clear his mind, and Charles watches his breath turn to steam in the freezing wind, huddled close to the E-04 side exit, perched high on a catwalk above rows of iced-over storage tanks. He's bundled up in all the thickest winter gear that he had packed, and he still feels the chill - the 'Icebox' Shatterdome deserves its moniker.

The harshness of the white world beyond the grey iron and concrete world of the Shatterdome is beautiful, though, and he admires its unflinching wilderness, the broad brushwork of Nature. Should humanity fail to prevent its own extinction, Charles thinks, as frost starts to dust over his eyebrows, Nature would soon bury their bones in sculptures of ice and blankets of snow. 

There's a tentative touch on his mind, a polite telepathic 'knock', and Charles allows the connection, welcomes the familiar signature. He's touched minds with Nathan Summers once, a very long time ago, when Nathan had visited the Jaeger Academy in Lima, desperate for a new co-pilot, and the despair-pain-anger was gone now, replaced by a careful calm. 

_I should have greeted you before_ , Nathan Summers begins with a light apology, and his telesending as always is a pleasure, both the right degree of crisp and emotive current, a beautiful degree of control that reminds Charles of Jean Grey. They're related somehow, if Charles recalls, through her… boyfriend? Partner? Scott Summers, very likely, but he's never gotten the details. _Welcome to Anchorage._

_No, you were busy, I hear,_ Charles replies, projecting comfort and warmth and assurance. Even if he wasn't naturally inclined to be friendly, it made sense to keep up at least a polite relationship with other telepaths. They would, after all, be the ones watching your back against the kaiju. _How was your check-up?_

_Nothing unusual._ Charles can feel-hear Nathan's amusement. _I hope that the neural handshake that you had with Lehnsherr wasn't too… problematic._

_It failed as I thought it would fail._

_And yet you wish to try again?_ Curiosity-concern. _Lehnsherr is… not a very easy individual to deal with, Xavier._

_'Charles', please._ Charles replies automatically. _I think I would like to try other solutions. I've been considering them for a time, but with all the world's known telepaths save myself already matched with co-pilots, I had never had the time nor inclination._

Nathan doesn't ask about his other solutions - he can probably feel-hear, after all, that Charles hasn't quite thought them out thoroughly yet. Telepathic speech is such a _delightfully_ emphatic way of communicating: Charles used to spend _hours_ just quietly talking with Jean over nothing particularly relevant to Shatterdome matters. He missed her, almost as much as he missed his sister.

_You might want to return to the Shatterdome before you freeze_ , Nathan tells him finally, and projects a brief image of the Kwoon room, of Lehnsherr balanced neatly on the practice mat, a staff held at guard. _And before Lehnsherr traumatises all the cadets._

Charles isn't sure what Nathan thinks that he would be able to do about this, but he obligingly lets himself back into the Shatterdome, ambling down a few corridors, occasionally skimming directions off the surface thoughts of passers-by until he finds the Kwoon room. The one in Anchorage is smaller than Lima's, but it's currently near empty: a cadet limps past him hurriedly, eyes averted.

Warily, Charles peeks in. A red practice mat lines the ground, and there's a rack on the wall with more training staves. Lehnsherr tenses and turns - he must have made a sound, perhaps - then he snorts, narrowing his eyes. He's dressed in a light shirt that's glued to his beautifully broad shoulders with sweat, and used as Charles is to the honed frames of cadets and soldiers, Lehnsherr's lean frame is uncommonly-

"What do you want?" Lehnsherr demands.

Charles is briefly at a loss, then he lifts a shoulder lightly. "Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm fine," Lehnsherr snaps shortly, narrowing his eyes in annoyance, and Charles briefly expects to be curtly dismissed before Lehnsherr adds, to his surprise, "Want to practice?"

"I'm not exactly dressed for it."

This time, Lehnsherr smirks. "I'll make sure that I don't damage any of your nice _clothes_." There's a savage note of challenge in his tone that promises a bruising, and Charles has never been a fan of pain, even had he not been a-

"I'm a telepath," Charles reminds him politely.

"And so?"

"And so, a fight would hardly be a fair-"

"Pick up a _verdammt_ staff." 

Charles grits his teeth, curls his spur of irritation away, and breathes out. Carefully, he removes his outer coats and his watch, hanging them on the equipment hooks next to the rack and slipping his watch into a coat pocket, then he selects one of the staves and toes off his shoes. He had changed out of the circuitry suit earlier into his preferred casual wear - shirts, cardigans and trousers - and he feels somewhat out of place as he tests the weight of the staff and then settles into position opposite Lehnsherr. 

He's not out of practice, at least, thanks to Marshall Logan's insistence that he keep in practice, but there's still that banked violence in Lehnsherr's eyes that gives him pause. Still, when Lehnsherr swings his staff in a vicious arc towards his ribs, Charles picks the move up a fraction of a second from Lehnsherr's surface thoughts, and parries.

It's… easier than normal, even, Charles realizes, as he falls into his defensive routines. He can pick out Lehnsherr's moves, often even before his telepathy informs him of them: there's a precision to the way Lehnsherr moves, a logic, like a brilliantly ordered machine, but had Charles not had his telepathy, it's quite likely that he'll already have ended up thoroughly bruised. 

" _Fight_ ," Lehnsherr snarls, followed by a string of guttural words in German as he pins Lehnsherr's staff against the practice mat again. "Fight me, you _verdammt_ -"

Charles has to step back sharply to avoid a strike to his torso that would have fractured a rib, then he feints and parries another snappingly sharp arced blow. Lehnsherr, he realizes, startled, is _really_ trying to hurt him. Not even _Logan_ had ever approached him with this level of violence when sparring. 

"Lehnsherr," Charles tries to sound soothing, "Erik-"

"You want to study the problem, don't you," Lehnsherr spits, and there's hatred in his eyes, the same maddened hatred that Charles had felt in the Drift, when perched as Erik-not-Erik in the ruin of a small German town, "Break it down for me, then, _telepath_ , tell me what's wrong!" 

"Ah," Charles notes quietly, as revelation dawns, then he smiles faintly and steps back, dropping his staff. Lehnsherr _growls_ , snapping his staff forward, stopping the point an inch away from crushing Charles' throat. 

"Pick up your staff. We're not finished."

"Actually, we are." Charles says gently. Lehnsherr's expression twists, and he bares his teeth, but Charles adds, "Get some rest, Erik."

"I don't-"

"This is _not_ about pity," Charles interrupts, edging a little steel into his tone. "This is about the kaiju threat. It's greater than your pain, Erik, greater than all of our personal problems. You need to put your frustration aside. Martha Franklin is going to be flown in this evening. You're going to have to be calm when you attempt the neural handshake with her."

"I'll be ready," Erik notes shortly. 

"If you're going to be anything like what you were with me before we attempted the handshake, you're _not_ ready."

"And what would _you_ know," Erik growls in return, "You failed a neural handshake with your _sister_. You've never drifted successfully with anyone either - you've never had to _try_. What do you know about what it is like to Drift?"

"Do you think," Charles says wryly, "That telepaths talk to each other just in words, Erik? I know everything about what it is like to Drift from the other telepaths in Lima. Just as they know everything about what it is like to pilot a jaeger alone."

Lehnsherr frowns - he's unwilling to let go of his point, but in the end, he only curls his lip and heads over to the rack, returning the staff into its slot with an angry jerk. "Have you thought of your 'alternative methods'?" he asks then, gruffly: Charles can sense irritation fighting with Lehnsherr's hunger for revenge and losing.

"I think that it's difficult for you to participate in a successful neural handshake because of your inability to trust others," Charles notes frankly - perhaps too bluntly: Lehnsherr stiffens. Hastily, Charles adds, "And the neural handshake requires a great deal of trust even from a normal person-"

"Get to the point."

"The point is," Charles swallows his temper again, "That you may not trust a person, but you certainly trust your tools. You're good with the practice staff and I could sense you reaching out for Onslaught Exodus while we were in the Conn-Pod. So what I _propose_ is that you find out what having telepathy is like."

"And how," Lehnsherr drawls, though he actually seems a little curious now, "Could I manage that?"

"A neural link. Like Nathan's and Wade's." Charles taps his temple. "I'll give you access to my abilities. There'll be a slight delay of a second or so between your instructions and the results, but in effect, you'll be sharing my abilities. You can get used to a link being in place, and get used to me - and my ability."

"And you think that this will translate into a successful handshake?"

"Perhaps not. It's never been tried. After all, only cadets with high compatibility scores tend to qualify into the program in the first place - telepaths usually find their co-pilots quickly. But people often learn to trust their tools more quickly than they trust others. I think that it's worth a shot."

Lehnsherr shakes his head very slowly. "It won't work."

"You wouldn't know until-" Charles cuts himself off with a sigh, as Lehnsherr abruptly turns and leaves the room. Shaking his head, he bends to pick up the staff, replacing it on the rack. He can be patient.

III.

In a way, the handshake failure with Martha Franklin is worse than the one with Xavier's, for all that it was broken off cleanly and with no abuse of his powers. It's still unsettling to see a young girl shake uncontrollably all the way back up to base though, and the moment the Conn-Pod is open, she staggers out and throws up noisily in the corridor.

Her usual co-pilot, Johnny Gallo, glares furiously at Erik when Erik passes him out of the lift shaft, but Erik doesn't bother to defend himself. He isn't entirely sure what had caused this particular neural handshake failure. It doesn't matter, anyway. Four out of fifteen telepaths have proved to be wildly incompatible, and Xavier's words ring quiet and damning in his mind. Maybe he isn't compatible with anyone because he's been so damaged. 

The Kwoon room is empty, but Erik sits in a corner of it, on the mat, elbows over his knees, resting his skull against the cold hull and closing his eyes. He likes Kwoon rooms; likes the _feel_ of the metal around him within them, soaked through with disciplined violence. If he sleeps here, he thinks that he'll be able to hear the overlaid sounds of old matches, loud and brash in the silence of his mind.

He doesn't know how long he sits there, but eventually someone walks into the Kwoon room and waits at the doorway. From the pattern of metalwork on the intruder's person - intricate, likely expensive watch, platinum belt buckle, brass coat buttons - it's Xavier in casual dress. This is partly why Erik disliked him on sight: the man _reeks_ of old money, casual privilege, even without the enhanced status that his natural ability has bought him. They have nothing in common, and even Xavier's sympathy rankles: what would someone born to wealth and power know of the true meaning of pain?

Attempting to ignore Xavier is probably futile: the telepath probably knows that Erik is aware of his presence. Still, Erik pointedly ignores him, and after a long moment, Xavier notes mildly, "Franklin chased the rabbit, not you."

"I know." Belatedly, Erik grits his teeth. He hadn't meant to speak.

"I told Marshall Fury that she didn't have the training or ability to shield herself fully against-"

"It was still a failure," Erik interrupts sharply. 

"I just thought that you might-"

"If you don't have anything important to tell me, go away."

"Jean Grey will be arriving tomorrow morning," Xavier says wryly. "Friendly warning: if you make _her_ cry, you might end up gutted."

Erik snorts. He's heard of Marshall Logan and his famous berserker temper, of course. It's partly why Wolverine Phoenix has been so successful. "What happens in the Drift is hardly my fault."

"Sadly, it is, in a way," Xavier corrects, with his irritatingly gentle tone of reproach. "What you bring to the Drift affects its success. The break in the handshake was Franklin's fault, but you were hardly innocent."

Exasperated, Erik opens his eyes to glare. "I _know_ that there's a problem with me. I scarcely need it rubbed in my _face_ at every given _opportunity_."

"Ah," Xavier smiles faintly, "The first step towards a solution is admitting that you do in fact have a problem."

Erik tries not to grind his teeth, but then he remembers young Martha Franklin, white-faced, shaking and wide-eyed with horror, collapsing on her knees against the hull. "Martha Franklin," he says finally, slowly. "What did she see? I couldn't tell. I know that she was looking at the… at the Vinnitsa memories. I'm unsure why she reacted as she did. Surely she has seen worse. She's co-piloted Ricochet Spider for a year, hasn't she?"

"I spoke with her," Xavier's voice remains irritatingly gentle, and Erik briefly squashes the impulse to get up and punch him in the face. He clenches his fists. "It's different when you're several stories up, in a jaeger suit. And besides, it wasn't so much the imagery, but the intensity of the memory. I'm afraid that you've badly upset her, though she does feel as though she should apologise."

"Tell her not to bother." Erik doesn't want to look into that young girl's face for a while, if he can help it. She had been so _frightened_. 

Charles' eyes go distant for a while, then he nods. "She'll be boarding her flight back to Los Angeles soon. She says that she wishes you good luck, and she's sorry anyway."

Erik nods - what else can he say - but he finds himself calming down a little. "Were you watching? In Mission Control?"

"Yes, but at the back. I didn't want to get into anyone's way. I was with Nathan and Wade."

"The best of friends now, are you?" The phrase slips out before he can stop it: it's petty, but Xavier only inclines his head, his smile wry. 

"They're the only other jaeger pilots in Anchorage. I'm surprised that _you_ haven't tried to be friendlier with them." 

Erik snorts. "I've spoken to Nathan."

"One or two conversations in passing does not-"

"Why do _you_ care? I hear that they'll be transporting your jaeger over within the next two days." Erik can't even hide the envy in his voice if he tries. "When that arrives, you won't need to keep pestering me. You'll have your own jaeger again."

"Mark-IV," Xavier murmurs, his tone fond, "Hyper-Assault Gauss missile payload. Twin-linked particle cannon instead of plasma."

"Built for ranged combat," Erik translates. "You ran support for Wolverine Phoenix?"

Xavier nods. "The external shell of Mystique Cerebro is plated with refractpolymers, linked to the amp in the co-pilot seat. My sister is a shapeshifter," he explains, when Erik arches an eyebrow. "Her ability, amplified, was meant to be able to help our jaeger effectively have stealth capacities." 

"Transforming into kaiju?" The idea's highly improbable - Xavier actually laughs.

"No, no. By camouflaging itself against our immediate environment. Tony Stark's design." Xavier shakes his head, slowly. "That's the last time he designed a jaeger _before_ a successful neural handshake."

"He could have modified it easily enough." Amps give their jaegers an edge against the constantly evolving kaiju: it's the reason why most co-pilots have some sort of offensive ability, or failing which, a useful defensive ability, like Neena Thurman's. "Leaving you without a co-pilot _was_ a waste. There are far more cadets than there are telepaths."

"Yes there are," Xavier concedes, with that infuriatingly gentle smile. "But the amendments required on that jaeger would have been extensive, and besides, I rather liked piloting my own jaeger. And many of the co-pilots whom Marshall Logan recommended were… unsuitable."

"You lack a killing instinct," Erik recalls bluntly. Logan probably tried to supplement the deficiency.

Xavier is untroubled. "So I have been told." 

"If you rejected his choices, then why bother with _me_?"

"I've been told that your ability is rarer than mine." Xavier's smile is lightly teasing. "That's always an intriguing statement. And besides," he adds soberly, when Erik glares, "I know that there's another purpose to the Onslaught Exodus project. I'm curious. Fury wouldn't put so much effort and political capital into a single jaeger, even an enhanced one." 

That much has occurred to Erik as well, but he hasn't asked further. All he wants is to be able to be synced to that immense machine, to use its power. He doesn't exactly care what Fury wants it for, as long as some kaiju die along the way.

"If the neural handshake with Jean Grey fails," Erik decides finally, quietly, "Perhaps we should try things your way." 

Xavier blinks at him, then he smiles, so suddenly and brightly that Erik momentarily feels an answering quirk to his mouth that he quells. It's a small chance, but it seems now a touch less improbable than before.


	3. Chapter 3

3.0.

Charles feels Jean's telepathic touch the moment the helicopter comes within range, and beside him, Nathan straightens slightly. She's greeting them both, then, though probably without quite as much joy-affection-missed-you at Nathan as she has at Charles - the moment that the helicopter is stable on the freezing concrete, Jean darts out, bulky in a thick black parka that pulls out the red of her hair, and she whoops as she jumps into his arms.

Hugging is awkward when both parties are fully suited up against the freezing cold of the Icebox, though, but Charles finds himself grinning anyway, patting her back. Jean's far younger than Charles is: she's only nineteen this year - but she already has more kaiju kills under her belt than any other telepath. 

In part, that's because Jean is, famously, the very first telepath to have successfully synced with a jaeger, her Mark-I. But for the most part, in Charles' opinion, it's probably because of her co-pilot. Marshall Logan ambles out of the helicopter, rolling his broad shoulders, the angular, brutal profile of his face cast sharp against the white wilderness behind the launchpad for a moment before he stalks over towards them, to clasp hands with Fury. He nods to Charles, his eyes softening a little as his gaze curls over Jean, then he follows Fury into the Shatterdome, both Marshalls speaking too quietly for Charles to pick their words out over the wind.

Nathan pats Jean's shoulder, and she grins at him - he nods at something unspoken, and lopes off after the Marshalls. Wilson winks at them both before he follows, and Jean looks at the mercenary's retreating back for a moment before she pulls away from Charles. 

"They're synced up all the time," Jean observes.

"That they are."

"Don't you think that it's weird?" she asks, unselfconsciously blunt.

Charles smiles, a little indulgently: he remembers Jean when she was younger than this, fresh-faced, having sought him out in Oxford on a rumour, struggling to control her talent. "I think Nathan is so relieved to have found someone whom he can still reach out to that he doesn't want to let him go."

Jean grimaces. "Poor man," she says finally, and through her telesend Charles can sense that she's talking about both pilots; he responds with his sense-memory of Wilson's contentment, Nathan's calm, and Jean relaxes, if reluctantly. She reaches out with her gloved hand and squeezes his, and they walk hand in hand towards the Shatterdome. "How's Anchorage?"

"It's just like any other Shatterdome." 

"I've missed you," she confides, though she's grinning as she says it, and Charles recalls, briefly, the argument that they had, years ago, when the Jaeger program had first reached out to telepaths. She had been too young to be conscripted, he had said; surely there were other means to confront the kaiju threat that were less experimental and unbelievable. Gigantic nuclear-powered robots, indeed! She had called him selfish and afraid, and had left, taking Scott with her. 

It had taken them a year to reconcile, and only when the world had grown desperate for more telepaths. Charles had sighed, turned over the reins of his nascent school and his somewhat organised search-and-rescue mutant teams to Ororo, and had left to join the Jaeger Academy. _I missed you_ , she had said then, with a telepathic shout of joy in his mind when he had landed in Lima. _Gods, I missed you, Professor._

"I've missed you too, Jean," he replies, with a smile of his own, as the thick blast doors shut out the cold, and they head past technicians and security towards the gigantic hangar. Charles can sense her curiosity about Onslaught Exodus, and he brings her as close as they can get to the cordoned off construction crews. Now that most of the scaffolding has been removed, Onslaught Exodus rises sleek and lean over the catwalks, the silver of its casing painted with occasional gashes of red and royal purple.

They're not the only observers attracted to the sight - Lehnsherr stiffens as they approach, his gaze darting first to their joined hands, then to Jean's face, then he nods curtly at her. "Captain."

"Jean," Jean corrects, disengaging her hand and reaching over to shake Lehnsherr's. "You must be Erik Lehnsherr."

"I am." Lehnsherr's tone is neutral.

Charles can sense Jean tensing up, and he cuts in quickly. "Onslaught Exodus seems almost finished."

"They're outfitting it at the moment." Lehnsherr relaxes slightly at the mention of the jaeger - _his_ jaeger, Charles supposes. 

"Tell me about it," Jean encourages, sensing the slight thaw in Lehnsherr's tone. "Or at least, what's not classified."

"The neural links," Lehnsherr notes, after a pause. "They're experimental. The sensory load is almost entirely registered from me. Instead of being run from conn-arm and ankle fitouts, the conn-link is a near complete link-up of the entire jaeger to myself, made possible with the amp." 

Normal pilots are linked to their jaeger in three ways, Charles recalls. Neurally, and with arm and ankle fitouts, made coherent by the spinal sublink. Lehnsherr's co-pilot seat had been far more complex than what Charles was used to - he hadn't been able to fathom the use of even half of the delicate fitouts. But of course - it had been built for a man who could speak to metal. Charles' co-pilot fitout had seemed token in comparison within Onslaught Exodus' Conn-pod.

"So you're essentially piloting the jaeger by yourself," Jean says finally, frowning. "All that you need a telepath for is to maintain the Drift and handle the neural load." 

"Yes." 

Jean glances over at Charles - she's reached the same conclusion that he has, and they touch minds briefly, just enough to correlate. "Ah," she says softly, then, "That's interesting," when Lehnsherr looks as though he's waiting for further comment.

Lehnsherr frowns, very slightly, but then he nods and strides away, leaving Charles to help Jean up onto a crate and then climb up himself, their feet dangling over the side. Jean will attempt a neural handshake with Lehnsherr at 1000 hours. She looks visibly unconcerned, though when they touch minds again, Charles can feel her worry. 

_You have better control than Franklin,_ he tells her comfortingly.

_Frost warned me_ , Jean replies, a little surprisingly, and unloads a sense-memory for Charles to touch. He finds himself looking through a second hand memory, through Emma Frost's mind, perhaps: he feels the deep echo of Erik's rage and despair even through the escalating collapse of the neural drift. Shuddering, he pulls back, and finds Jean watching him grimly. 

_Poor man_ , Jean notes finally, and looks up to Onslaught Exodus.

"How's Scott?" Charles asks, trying to change the subject.

"He's fine," Jean's expression softens slightly. "He wanted to come, but Logan said that it wasn't necessary. He sends his regards. So does Raven."

Charles nods, slowly. He doesn't ask if Jean has managed to resolve the increasingly awkward emotional tangle between herself, Marshall Logan and Scott Summers. Although technically, neither Logan nor Scott had mutant abilities considered complimentary to a jaeger amp: both had abilities that couldn't be projected, after all - Logan's killing instinct had served Wolverine Phoenix well, by way of its kill count.

And besides, Jean's neural handshake with Scott, although not a failure, had been so close to incompatibility that it couldn't be logically risked in the field. It wasn't their personalities, Jean had told Charles, once, in the ugly aftermath of a lover's quarrel two months into Charles' enrolment into the Lima Jaeger Academy. It was Scott's natural disinclination to share command when in control. Logan, on the other hand, was happy to allow for a push-pull of control: when suited up, his instincts were exemplary. 

Jaeger co-pilots usually end up lovers, if they aren't siblings. It's the nature of the Drift, and it's a constant source of tension with Jean off the field, and Charles occasionally worries about them. Charles glances back up at Onslaught Exodus, and back to his hands. He can't imagine Lehnsherr as a friend, let alone something more. Handsome as he is, he wears his pain and anger too close to the surface for a telepath's comfort. 

"You could come back," Jean says doubtfully, probably skimming the worry and concern from Charles' surface thoughts. "I could ask Logan to trade Riptide Frost back for you."

It's a briefly tempting thought, but Charles shakes his head. "Whatever Fury intends for Onslaught Exodus, it's probably a game changer. I think I should stay here until it's at least in progress."

"Mystique Cerebro will be here by tomorrow." Jean nods, then she grins at Charles' blink. "I wanted to bring it with us and surprise you, but there wasn't enough time."

"I appreciate the sentiment," Charles reaches over to pat Jean's wrist, and he does - it's sentimental, perhaps, and a little superstitious, but he _does_ miss his jaeger. Sometimes, when he's feeling particularly unscientific, he does believe that it's part of him: that when he sleeps and dreams, as Academy myth has it, the jaeger dreams with him.

They gossip about the other telepaths, all the way until the hour is up and Fury calls curtly over the comms for Jean to get suited up. Jean shoots Charles a nervous smile, clutches his hand, and slips off the crate.

IV.

This time, Erik is the one who ends up injured: he's been sent to the infirmary with a dislocated arm, which, despite his annoyed protests that he's fine, puts a damper on further compatibility testing for now.

Xavier turns up when Jean is still tearfully apologising, despite Erik's increasingly terse attempts to get her to leave him alone, and he curls an arm around her shoulders absently. They aren't lovers, Erik decides, as Jean hugs Xavier with a stifled sob. But they aren't exactly friends - it's somewhere in between, and it's unsettling, watching them touch foreheads and close their eyes, communicating in what was likely a sensory non-verbal thought stream.

Their own form of the Drift, Erik thinks, and looks away, briefly and bitterly envious. He only looks back when Jean hesitantly touches his arm. "I have to go," she says, her voice still wavering, red-eyed. "Logan and I can't leave Lima for too long."

"Of course." 

"Erik, I'm really very sorry-"

"You weren't hurt," Erik interrupts, tired of her apologies. "That's a preferred outcome."

"No, I-"

"Jean," Xavier cuts in gently, and she sighs, hugging herself, then she nods, mumbles something, and flees the room. 

"So," Erik mutters, "Should I be expecting a visit from Marshall Logan?"

Xavier stares at him for a moment before he recalls the reference, then he grins wryly. "Perhaps not in this instance."

"A telepath _and_ a telekinetic," Erik muses. He had been ripped out of the co-pilot seat by Jean when the neural handshake had collapsed, thrown violently against the hull of the Conn-pod. "Just like Summers. How is that-"

"Apparently, we're all better off not knowing," Charles noted dryly. He had been curious enough once to ask Jean about it, but she had been surprisingly - not forthcoming in the least. 

Erik snorts, and looks away again. "Did you shut her down?" Jean Grey had abruptly collapsed in her co-pilot cradle, shorn cabling, fragments and circuitry thudding down around her as though their puppet strings had been cut.

"Nathan helped," Xavier concedes. "Don't worry, we were gentle: once she recognised us, she let us in. I suppose that I should offer you an apology of my own. I thought that I had taught Jean better than this." 

So, Jean's mentor then. Her teacher. That explained the relationship. Erik relaxes, very slightly. "Emma Frost also chased the rabbit," he says, finally. "And she is _very_ good, by all reports."

No surprise registers on Xavier's face - he's probably heard about this, Erik realizes sourly. There's probably a telepath's grapevine, out there, filled with rumours of his spectacular handshake failures. "The only telepaths who didn't," he adds, although Xavier knows this, "Are Nathan, who was unable to hold the handshake in place long enough for a full Drift, and you."

"So far," Xavier echoes, though he nods. 

"Why do you think that is the case?"

"Well," Xavier says, after a moment's thought, "I can't speak for Nathan's problems, but I suppose for myself, perhaps I may have a touch more control than the others. I think that I'm the only so-called 'pure' telepath in the Pan Pacific Corps. The others have secondary mutations. Perhaps that plays a part." 

Erik shakes his head. "Secondary mutations have little to do with it. You're far stronger than the others, aren't you?" Fury wouldn't have been so certain that Xavier was his 'best' chance otherwise.

For the first time that Erik remembers, Xavier actually looks visibly uncomfortable: he twists his fingers in his lap, then he sighs and changes the subject. "Regardless, until you're certified fit for combat, you won't be attempting any other neural handshakes for now."

"Waste of time," Erik grunts. He'll talk to Fury about this.

"The situation," Xavier points out gently, "Is difficult enough with your… memories… that existing surface pain is only going to complicate an already difficult-"

"I _know_ ," Erik snaps, and clenches his hands, feels the spark of pain shoot through even the numbing effect of the drugs. It takes a moment for him to bite back his temper, enough that the tightness to Xavier's eyes eases.

"And besides, my jaeger will be arriving tomorrow. Fury seems to have a deadline, but I can assist Domino Cable during the emergence, if your… problem hasn't been addressed by then." 

Somehow, this statement unsettles Erik all over again, and he swallows. "Fine," he says, finally, then he exhales. "But in the meantime," he adds, reluctantly, "We can try things your way."

Xavier smiles reassuringly at him, and sits down carefully on the edge of the cot, his hands clasped before him. He's in casual clothes again, prim and proper: Erik vaguely recalls Logan referring to Xavier as 'Professor'. He looks far more like an academic than a soldier: another casualty of the kaiju threat, wrenched out of an old life into the new. Small wonder that Xavier has no killing instinct.

"Well?" Erik asks, when Xavier doesn't seem to do anything.

"The link is in place," Xavier notes, rather to his surprise - Erik hadn't felt anything. "Try talking to me. Just with your mind."

_HELLO_ , Erik projects cautiously, and Xavier laughs. 

_Too loud. Like this. I have a range that encompasses the Shatterdome, so you can reach out to me wherever you are._

The _Shatterdome_? Erik blinks. It's hard to believe that Xavier has _that_ much power. He doesn't look like he does. "And you can't hear my thoughts?"

"Not unless you want me to. Also," Xavier adds wryly, "Although I will obey your instructions, perhaps you should understand that as an unspoken rule, telepaths tend to respect the privacy of those around them. I usually walk around shielded."

"I understand." Erik himself is a private person, after all. "What can I-" _get you to do_ , he thinks, but the words stick awkwardly in his throat, but then Xavier chuckles, and Erik realizes that he's been heard anyway. It's rather less disconcerting than he thought. 

"Use your imagination." Xavier pats his hand, then he gets up and leaves the infirmary.

4.0.

Lehnsherr actually spends half a day doing nothing about the connection, which is a little surprising, but then the first tentative query comes when Charles is in the middle of reading one of the latest genetics treatises out of his alma mater, curled in his room. It's not so much a verbalised question but a mental impression, a query about his immediate surroundings, but even as Lehnsherr starts trying to carefully shape his query into words, Charles reaches out, locates Lehnsherr, and forwards him the skimmed surface impressions of all the minds in the immediate adjacent rooms.

It takes less than ten seconds, and Charles starts to go back to his treatise, then he hesitates. He's not sure how a non-telepath will handle the sudden extra-sensory overload: certainly when he had first reached puberty it had been traumatic. Briefly regretting the heavy-handedness, he nearly reaches out directly for Lehnsherr - but then there's a second query, this time touched with a sense-thought of wry ruefulness. The impression is just the immediate room 'before' him, and it takes Charles a moment to orient himself to Lehnsherr, then he forwards a select set of surface skims. 

Lehnsherr's standing in front of the Kwoon room, Charles realizes absently, as he reads another paragraph. He expects Lehnsherr to ask him for access to a mind, next, but instead, Lehnsherr seems to just potter around the base, occasionally pinging Charles for information. Eventually, Charles finds that he doesn't even need to pay very much conscious attention to Lehnsherr - it's almost an automatic response whenever Lehnsherr pings him and he responds: he reads the entire thesis, making notes, and starts drafting his critique.

He's a quarter through his first draft by the time Lehnsherr pings him again, and this time it's a curiosity about what Charles himself is doing. Charles allows Lehnsherr a view through his eyes, and with a bit of an afterthought, he drops Lehnsherr a surface impression of his thoughts.

_You still teach?_ Lehnsherr asks then, his query stilted. 

_No, but I still hold a chair at Oxford._ Charles feeds Lehnsherr the sense-memory that comes with his thoughts, of grants and research and the Oxford academic culture, the same as he would had he been speaking to Jean or Nathan. Lehnsherr retreats instantly, as though startled, but it isn't long before he's back, a quiet presence at the back of Charles' mind, accessing his surface impressions about the thesis.

When Charles simply continues to draft his critique instead of paying attention to Lehnsherr, he can actually sense Lehnsherr… relaxing, for want of a better word: it's difficult to describe neural impressions. Lehnsherr's exploring, studying his surface thoughts, the sense-thought-memory of an entire life spent in study, and without searching further, Charles can't really tell what Lehnsherr thinks about it. It's a useful exercise in self-control, if nothing else, controlling his own considerable curiosity.

Then Lehnsherr actually pings him with a question, half formed, shaped in sense-memory rather than words, as a telepath would: he's learned quickly, Charles notes, pleased. He hadn't exactly thought that Lehnsherr would be quite this quick at grasping his gift. 

_… superior, genetically, mutants?_

_Different, genetically,_ Charles corrects absently, inserting reproach into his response as well as amusement.

_Evolved_ , Lehnsherr replies, and surprises Charles with a thought-memory of Darwin's On the Origin of Species that makes Charles smile to himself. 

He responds with a sense-memory of one of his old thesis premises, and as Lehnsherr withdraws slightly, seemingly to think it over, Charles thinks of chess. This is a little like his favourite game of choice, a push-pull of moves: there's even a deadline and-

_You play chess?_ Lehnsherr asks, curious again, and when Charles pings him back with a yes-why-query of an impression, he sends Charles a sight-memory of his room, of the desk, of the battered old wooden chess set sitting over a small stack of books. 

_Whenever you like_ , Charles responds, and he doesn't hide his pleasure. Lehnsherr pulls away sharply, as though scalded, and Charles waits for a few heartbeats before exhaling and looking back down to his console. Patience. This is already a fair start.


	4. Chapter 4

V.

It takes three days for Erik to learn how to buffer himself against the sea of conflicting half-formed thoughts and emotional impressions that swamp him whenever he 'queries' ahead about the next room. He doesn't know how telepaths can handle it, at Drift _all_ the time, and reluctantly, he starts to respect Xavier and the others a little more.

He informs Xavier of this sentiment, albeit obliquely, during the game of chess that they're playing in a corner of the canteen, and Xavier laughs. "Puberty was not pleasant," Xavier admits, even as he studies the board, his downy cheeks pressed against both of his palms, elbows on the table. The Professor looks uncomfortably boyish, like this, fresh-faced and younger than his years, and Erik drops his eyes to the board. He thinks that he's winning, but he can never be sure. 

"At least you did not get packed off to a psychologist." When Xavier doesn't immediately respond, Erik raises his eyes. "Did you?"

"Did I hide it from my parents? No. I was naive." Xavier's smile has worn thin, into a flat line. "There was a psychologist. Many psychologists, and drugs, until I learned to lie and control myself."

Erik finds that he's angry at this, and he quells the spike, moves his knight. His injured arm throbs, but he grits his teeth. Physical pain is merely a distraction to be ignored. "That is unfortunate."

"Oh yes." Xavier purses his lips, and shifts his bishop, threatening a pawn. "But it was not as bad as it could have been. Jean was sent into a psychiatric ward, for example: conditions were horrific. She escaped, lived homeless for months until she overheard a… friend of mine discussing my… I was thinking of starting up a school," Xavier amends. "For people like us. I didn't want anyone else to suffer from misunderstandings, particularly children."

"You taught Jean."

"I did. Her, and a handful of others. I was thinking of relocating my little endeavour to my family home in Westchester."

"And then the kaiju came?"

"Yes. During Landfall in London…" Xavier trails off, and sighs. "We could do nothing. I had some insane idea that perhaps, with our combined efforts, my students could overcome the threat. But kaiju minds cannot be turned, and they were too big. I lost students that day." 

Erik moves another pawn to guard the one being threatened. "But you did not join the Jaeger Program immediately?" At Xavier's arched eyebrow, Erik adds, a touch irritably, "You have very few kills for a veteran, if you are one, and if you were, I would have heard of you."

"Ah," Xavier chuckles, and the indulgence in his voice should rankle, but it doesn't. Erik wonders if it's a side effect of this… whatever it is that they are doing. He's getting used to Xavier's occasionally annoying affectations. "No, I felt that the government was doing fine, and that people who were special, like us, should dedicate their time to evac and rescues. After all, it wasn't as though the governments were allocating enough resources to those as such."

"The only good defence," Erik points out, "Is to go on the offensive."

"I prioritise life," Xavier retorts, and when Erik shakes his head slowly, he adds, quietly, "You've seen death, Erik - God, you've seen so much of it. So have I. The difference between you and me is that you experience death in the isolation of your own mind. You do not know what it is like to understand the entirety of another's death." 

Erik shudders. He's heard stories. A kaiju's neural strike had killed Tran Coy Manh, the telepathic half of a pair of twins who were one of the original Mark-I pilot pairs, and the effect on his sister Xi'an, linked through the Drift, had been devastating. Word has it that she spends half the time still thinking that she's her brother, their minds fused together and destroyed at the point of his death. 

"How do you bear it?"

"I find reasons to move on." Xavier moves his bishop again, chasing another pawn. "People to live on for. The world is ending," Xavier adds, when Erik doesn't respond, "There's no shortage of reasons." 

"Some might deem it futile."

"It's never futile while there's still hope." Xavier smiles at him, with a warmth that Erik isn't sure what to make of. "You understand that, or you wouldn't be here."

"I understand vengeance," Erik corrects, annoyed at Xavier's presumptions. "Even if the world is ending, I want to kill at least one of those things before I die."

"Oh my friend," Xavier sighs, "Had you not had the ability that you do-"

"But I do have it," Erik cuts in shortly, trying to hold down his temper. "So the Academy has no interest in my motivations, as long as I _am_ motivated."

"There's a reason behind the Jaeger Academy's rules against allowing the vengeful to be selected."

"And I have heard it." 

"I think that you do not _understand_ it." Xavier stares at the board for a moment longer, then he looks back up to him, bringing up a hand, his fingers lax, as though hesitant to reach out. "May I?"

Erik stares at Xavier warily for a moment, then he nods. "What are you-" 

He can't manage words. He's seeing a slew of images, a confused quilt of sensation and memory and melded thought, but he is calm: he has entered the Drift before, with his sister; before that, before all this, this is how he has always ever known to speak to those with a gift similar to his. He holds himself firm in the blue astral and he anchors Erik (Erik?) in place with the ease of borrowed experience, from all the sense-memories of the telepaths whose minds he has touched (Charles?). 

For a brief heartbeat, he thinks that perhaps this will be enough, but then, just as abruptly, he's blindsided by a violent spike of hatred-anger-despair-grief-murder and his control _slips_ ; he pulls the anchor back in place but it's too late, Erik is fighting him, rejecting his presence, he hears Fury's instructions and he _tries_ but there's too much anger, too much pain, he's close to chasing the rabbit himself even with all his experience and control and-

"Enough," Erik gasps, not-Charles, not-Charles _now_ and Xavier-Charles-Xavier smiles gently at him from across the chessboard. The pieces are scattered, but he doesn't remember how that happened, and across the canteen, a few passing cadets stare at them, spooked, then hurriedly scuttle away when he glares at them. 

Sense-memory, that's what Charles calls this sort of telesend. It's a perfectly insane way of communicating, in Erik's opinion, and perhaps he thinks that too loudly - Charles' smile widens in wry amusement. "So you see."

Erik does - God, he understands now - but he can't imagine what- "You can't fix a person in two weeks."

"You aren't broken."

Erik stares at Charles, unsmiling, and after a moment, Charles' annoying grin drops, and he sighs, picking up and righting the pieces on the chessboard. Erik cannot bear company, all of a sudden: he gets up from his seat, and without saying a word further, strides out of the canteen, his teeth clenched so hard that they ache.

5.0.

Perhaps sharing the sense-memory had been a mistake: Erik scrupulously avoids Charles for the whole of the next day, and Charles spends it quietly finishing up his critique, emailing it to his colleague, and then he sits in a corner of the Kwoon room, watching Nathan and Wilson spar.

Powers and neural links aside, Wilson is probably by far the superior fighter - he has speed, agility and an uncanny instinct for blood. With the permanent link between them, however, it's less of a sparring match than a dance, with both partners fully in sync with each other's movements, every feint ignored, every swipe instantly parried. Charles isn't sure what the point of this is, but Nathan has a small smile on his mouth, and Wilson-

"Nearly got you there, old man," Wilson ducks under a jab and flips himself up and out of range with the flat of his palm on the practice mat. His staff sweeps out behind him, and he switches his grip, ambidextrous, and he winks at Charles even as he beckons at Nathan mockingly. "Want to tap out for a bit? Catch your breath?"

Nathan glances over to Charles with a polite query in his eyes, but Charles shakes his head, smiling. "I'm not quite in the mood to get trounced."

"Aww, you fought the German, came out without bruises," Wilson bounces on his heels. "C'mon, _c'mon_. I think Nate here needs a breather."

"I'll be happy to take up your challenge in a game of chess," Charles suggests, and laughs when Nate chuckles and Wilson rolls his eyes. 

"I don't _like_ chess. There's not enough violence. Even in the Harry Potter version. Do you watch Harry Potter?" There's always a manic edge to Wilson's voice when he's caught up in his bloodlust, a sharp contrast to Nathan's iron calm. "Because if you haven't, and I think Nate here hasn't, maybe we should have a movie night. Make our own popcorn."

"Sadly," Charles begins, then he frowns, as klaxon alarms start to whine around them. Quickly, he reaches out to Fury, who seems used to telepaths - he projects an image of the Drivesuit room, and Charles sends an acknowledgement before dropping his touch. 

Nathan's clearly done the same: he's already returning the staff to the rack, catching Wilson's when it's tossed to him. "We're up," he says quietly, his eyes narrowed. 

"The emergence clock's never been wrong before." Reed Richards was probably either having a mild aneurysm or was in transports of scientific discovery. Maybe both, knowing the eccentric scientist. 

"First time for everything," Wilson looks utterly unconcerned: his grin is sharp, feral. "Your Mystique Cerebro's in berth."

"Range specialist," Charles offers, before Wilson speaks the question at the forefront of his mind.

"Keep at our backs, and, ah-"

"He knows how to take orders. Professor Xavier will be running support," Nathan cuts in. "We've already discussed the possibility of deployment. He knows what to do."

"Well, all right, keep it in your hippie telepath brain club," Wilson mock scowls, as Nathan tugs him almost absently to his side. Charles politely averts his eyes as they kiss, hard and hungry, Wilson's fingers clawed tight into Nathan's broad shoulders, then Wilson is all but hopping out of the Kwoon room, grinning, high on violence. 

Charles tries not to shudder, but Nathan touches his wrist, his fingers shockingly cold: they touch minds, conducting a conversation about strategy and hierarchy and tactics all within an instant, then they clasp hands tightly and head out.

Surprisingly enough, Erik is waiting for them, on the way up to the lifts that would take them to the Drivesuit room, and Nathan nods at Erik before heading forward after Wilson. Charles doesn't need to touch Erik's mind to sense his frustration, and he smiles reassuringly. "Your turn will come."

"I…" Erik hesitates, then he grits his teeth and looks away. "Allow me to stay - to watch. When you're out there. If it won't be a distraction."

"You're welcome to watch, of course." Charles allows the tentative touch in his mind to settle. 

"I've been-" Erik starts, stops, then he mutters, gruffly, "Good luck."

"Thank you, Erik." Impulsively, Charles reaches over to clasp Erik's hand, warm and callused, and Erik blinks at him, startled, before squeezing back. 

Charles thinks of the warmth, fleeting over his fingers, even as he gets suited up, and alone in the Conn-Pod, he breathes out as he settles into the co-pilot's seat, closing his eyes as the gel fills his helmet and his boots and wrists lock into place. He feels rather than hears the Conn-Pod locking into place, the HUD screens coming online, the sudden rush of extrasensory connections, the weight and vast expanse of the alien thought-cradle that forms what Charles has always thought of as Mystique Cerebro's own brain, reaching for him, locking into place. 

Erik is a small presence at the back of his mind that he keeps carefully shielded apart, as the ground shifts under his-the-jaeger's feet and the great J-18 transport carriers lift Mystique Cerebro out into the freezing cold. 

Domino Cable is a huge shadow in the evening dark, limmed with lights from its J-18 and the aft lights lining its bulky frame, the sunset-red of its nuclear exhaust. He's briefly distracted by the view, but Fury's already speaking from LOCCENT to the both of them.

"Category unknown. There's activity at the portal, but we don't know what. Radar indicates that something is approaching the coastline, estimated landfall at Vancouver."

"How dare these giant alien lizard things attack my country!" Wilson declares over the comm with melodramatic horror, and despite himself, Charles laughs. 

"For fuck's sake, Wilson, stay off the comm," Fury snaps. "Xavier, stay focused."

Undeterred, Wilson manages a last, "For maple syrup and poutine!" before Fury growls in a warning tone that promises creative violence in the near future if nobody shuts the hell up, and the mercenary falls silent. They're out over open sea now, judging from the HUD radar, and Charles takes in a deep breath as the J-18 disengages.

There's a brief sensation of weightlessness, then Mystique Cerebro lands on the sea floor with a thunderous impact and a serrated roar from coolant fans that he feels within his bones. He takes a step to right himself-itself, then Charles brings up the targeting HUD with a thought, scanning the dark waves. Within the left side of his-its line of vision, Domino Cable is striding out into position, the gleam of its plasma cannon a brilliant blue glow at its right elbow joint even from this distance. 

"On your mark," Fury snaps over the comm, "Domino Cable, three o' clock."

"Approaching at-" Maria Hill cuts herself off, sucking in a tight gasp of shock. "Brace! Brace!" 

Wilson's reflexes is probably what saves Domino Cable from being torn apart before the battle's even begun. The oddly sleek body of the kaiju surges out of the dark waves in an arc, the gleaming serrated knife of its horned head missing Domino Cable by inches. Charles tries to get a target lock, but the kaiju's too quick, slithering back into the deeper waters even as Domino Cable makes a grab for its tail. 

"Category four," Fury says over the comm, "Marlin. Domino Cable, watch your six."

Domino Cable whirls, and this time, sidesteps only a fraction, grasping the lunging kaiju by its forelegs and a spinal spike, wrestling it out of its arc and slamming it into the sea floor. It heaves upwards, shrilling, and jerks so violently that Domino Cable's grip breaks; lashing out with its tail, it swipes the jaeger's footing out from under it, sending Domino Cable crashing to its knees.

Charles knows all of this objectively, in a datastream out of Mystique Cerebro's considerably advanced enviro-scans. He's breathing in slowly, and out, as he lines up his shot, the shoulder Gauss cannon securing itself up on his-its raised left arm. There's a dull shock that reverberates up his elbow as he fires, and he sees the corkscrewing blue tail of the HAS Gauss missile for a fraction of a second before it slams into the kaiju's back, making it shriek and hurl itself away from Domino Cable, sweeping into deeper waters, leaving a streak of brilliant blue kaiju blood behind it. 

He's missed the spine, but he's given Domino Cable the distraction that it needed - the jaeger's picking itself up, and bracing its left arm: a gleam of silver outlines itself briefly against the distant glow of Vancouver city. Adamantium alloy blade, Tony Stark's concoction, very likely, able to punch easily through kaiju armor, but massively costly to repair if nicked or scratched. Weapon of last resort. 

_Professor_ , Nathan sends him a sense-warning even as Fury snaps, "Xavier, on your three!" Charles moves, his particle cannon warming up even as the kaiju leaps from the waves, clawing at him; the shot glances off its flank and knocks it off centre, but it only shrieks and whirls, it's too close-

Domino Cable slams into it with the juggernaut momentum of hundreds of tons of adacarbonium power armour, stabbing deep with the alloy blade, spitting it in place as the jaeger raises its plasma cannon, the blue heart of the arm-mounted cannon pulsing brighter as it charges up a deadly shot. The kaiju shrieks, curling on itself, then it twists its lizard-like body, as though aiming its spine and Charles _knows_ , somehow, knows without thinking-

 _Nathan-Wade-move!_ Charles telesends forcefully, but Domino Cable's pinned in place as much by its blade as the kaiju, and the spikes on the kaiju's spine stitch up in an awful line over Domino Cable's torso and arms and legs, God - thankfully missing the Conn-Pod - but now it's twisting up and away from the blade, rearing up, roaring in triumph.

Mystique Cerebro isn't built for close combat, but it's either intervene or leave Nathan and Wilson to their deaths. Charles charges up the particle cannon even as he barrels into the kaiju, swinging his-its fist and catching it high on its jaw, fragmenting it. The kaiju twists, shrieking, but Charles gets a grip on its supple neck, dragging its writhing form away from Domino Cable, collapsed on its knees, holding it still as the particle cannon charges, almost to lethal.

He sees a brilliant pulse of blue from the kaiju's mouth, and for a moment he blinks, utterly astonished. Charles tries to shift back a step in reaction and finds himself frozen in place, locked tight, and for a confused moment of panic he realizes, all at once, that the Conn-pod is dark and silent, all the HUD screens are down, he doesn't hear Fury and-

 _EMP pulse_ , Erik's telesend is faint and edged with panic, and Charles blinks dully, dazed from the abrupt severance of his mind from the Drift. Then the kaiju is close, up too close, and there's a terrible sound, like metal screaming and wrenching, and Charles sees through a corner of the cockpit visor a length of metal getting tossed into the waves. Gods, it's the Gauss cannon and - claws scrabble over the visor and the Conn-Pod, but Tony Stark's engineering holds fast: it can't wrench out the Pod, nor can its claws crack the double steelglass slit of the visor.

Then the world tilts, and nausea lurches sharp at the disorientation: he's looking at the waves, at the step of the kaiju's knee, the foam of their wake. Mystique Cerebro's being dragged out into deeper waters, Charles realizes, horrified. The kaiju means to drown him. 

Frantic, he manages to manually disengage himself from the cabling, dragging off his helmet as all that the gel does out of sync is to heavily obscure his vision. The boot lock is always tricky: he gets a leg free, then the other, then the world tilts further and Charles loses his footing, tumbling heavily against the Conn-Pod visor with a yelp. All he can see is dark water, and he scrambles up away from the glass, climbing up for the manual lock. 

The emergency ejection pods won't save him - digitally triggered - but perhaps if he can get to the hatch, swim out, perhaps, he's too small, the kaiju won't even notice - then there's another tremor that bounces him heavily against the hull, and he slams hard enough against the glass to lie stunned. His head feels wet, and when he tries to drag himself back he sees an arc of red blood in his shadow, from his temple. 

He can see - he can see the sea floor, Xavier realizes, under the glass, and nothing is moving. There's an impact that shudders along the hull, then nothing, and blindly, Charles reaches out for Nathan, someone, anyone-

 _Hold on_ , Nathan sends back, _We're coming._

Confused, Charles sends back a query, and it's Wilson who responds through the link with Nathan, _We're not down yet, Prof. Nate, on our six!_

He withdraws his mind, not wanting to distract them, and tries to get up, but it seems easier just to lie still and wait. He has an hour of air without the filters, and he's sleepy now, so very sleepy. Blood loss, the scientist within him tells him. 

It seems like no time at all, or perhaps eternity when there's a wrenching sound around him, like locks being forced out of sync, twisted away, then he rolls awkwardly against the floor of the Conn-Pod as it's pulled up through the waves, finally rising out of the water itself into the night. Beyond, he can see the distant gleam of Vancouver city, and two dark shapes collapsed near the coastline, and even as Charles rolls onto his back, he looks out through the visor at _Erik_.

Erik is holding up the Conn-Pod, floating on a square of metal under his feet, his hand outstretched, strain in every line of his body, shouting something that echoes the clamour in Charles' mind, but it's too much effort to focus, and besides, he's safe now, Charles thinks; now he can sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

VI.

Domino Cable is profoundly damaged - the swarm of the maintenance crew on the scaffolding around it is animated, but seems fatalistic. Gaping rents sit in the armour from the spinal spikes, and the adamantium alloy blade is still caked thick with kaiju blood, the rest of the massive arm under the elbow joint missing, with only a mass of cabling and twisted metal in its place. 

The kaiju had been stopped mere metres from making landfall. Wade Wilson had been knocked unconscious when the kaiju had torn off the blade arm at the elbow, shocked into a pain loop of feedback despite Summers' efforts, and Summers had finished the kaiju alone, bearing the neural load just long enough to jam the adamantium blade through its skull. 

All in all, Erik thinks, as he studies the reconstruction, a disaster.

 _No one died_ , Summers' voice pushes into his mind, polite, and when Erik glances up, he sees Summers rounding the corner out of the lifts. Visiting hours over, probably: Summers' lip curls, as though he heard that thought. 

"Wilson's still out of commission for now." A critical failure in the torso gearing had wrenched Wilson's right ankle in its leg grip: if Summers hadn't also been telekinetic, forcing the grip open the moment he had felt pain pulse up in Wilson's mind, Wilson probably would have lost his foot. 

Summers nods, his expression blank. "You left the Shatterdome."

Erik stares at him, frowning. He hadn't been in LOCCENT - by the time he had prised a square of metal off a crate in the launch square and flown himself out into the dark, Fury wouldn't have been able to stop him. He couldn't explain the impulse, not entirely. The kaiju had still been alive, it was suicidal, but- 

"I could feel," he begins to explain, then he shudders. "Charles. He was going to die, I think. I could feel… the press of his mind, it was-"

Summers nods. "We wouldn't have reached him in time, even if Wade hadn't been knocked out of the Drift." 

"I know." It's an unsettling thing, thinking how close Charles came to suffocating: the knowledge sits heavy and uncertain in his stomach, ugly and coiled. He doesn't remember when he actually came to care about Charles. It's only been a few _days_. 

"Thank you," Summers says then, and there's a terrible solemnity in his voice. "You have no idea how-"

"Save it." Erik doesn't want to hear it - the whole situation is uncomfortable, frustrating: Charles is still heavily medicated and so is Wilson and the emergence clock seems to be fucked, two jaegers are out of commission and _his_ is out of his reach. 

"Tony Stark is flying in," Summers notes, though his tone remains neutral. "He'll take charge of repairing Mystique Cerebro."

That's no comfort at all - Erik scowls. He doesn't like the idea of Charles: prim and proper Charles out again in a jaeger, alone, with his utter lack of battle instincts, even running ranged support. The very thought feels profane. He nods curtly, however, instead of mentioning this, but Summers probably hears it anyway. If he does, though, it doesn't show in his expression. 

"Had that kaiju not somehow developed a natural EMP," Summers notes, and his voice is gentler, "It's unlikely that Mystique Cerebro would have been damaged."

This isn't certain at all, but Erik merely nods again, if less sharply. "The kaiju evolve all the time. The mistake with the spinal missiles was yours." If Domino Cable hadn't been pinned under the weight of the kaiju and its blade, hadn't been _damaged_ , Charles would have been left safely at range, would have been-

"It was." Summers nods, and his hand goes up to his face absently, the way Erik notices that it does whenever Summers is remembering something that he doesn't like, to touch the ugly, badly healed scar that runs up over his right eye, an old memento from the kaiju. "The field is quite different from the simulations."

The rebuke in Summers' voice is gentle, almost unnoticeable, but Erik takes it anyway, jerking his gaze away back to the damaged bulk of Domino Cable. The Mark-IIIs are analog, which had made Domino Cable immune to the EMP pulse, but it still looks as though it'll be weeks from being combat ready again. Distracted, he finds himself automatically reaching out for Charles, but the link isn't there: Charles is asleep. 

"Fury is bringing in another telepath tomorrow," Erik says, when Summers doesn't look like he's about to leave. "Do you know her?" 

"Elizabeth Braddock," Summers confirms. "With her co-pilot, her twin brother Brian Braddock. They pilot a Mark-II, Britannic Psylocke, operating out of Hong Kong."

"I knew all that," Erik notes, though he's careful to keep his annoyance from his voice. "I meant, have you met her personally?"

"I was brought to Hong Kong's Jaeger Academy briefly." Summers' voice goes briefly flat before worming back to neutral, and his hand twitches, as though itching to go back up to his scar. "She's only a little older than Jean Grey. Also a telekinetic," he adds, "Less powerful though."

Another possible dislocated shoulder on the horizon then, Erik thinks sourly. Wonderful. 

"I'll be watching her more closely than I did Jean," Summers offers, probably picking up Erik's sentiment. "And Charles should be awake enough by then to assist."

"Charles should be resting."

"You don't know how stubborn he can be," Summers notes, amused now. "Get some rest yourself," he adds, and turns to go. Erik glares at his back, a little uselessly, then he grits his teeth and stalks off towards the Kwoon room. A little violence might resettle his soul.

Surprisingly enough - or perhaps not - the Kwoon room is deserted except for Fury, who by the looks of it had been expecting to see him. The Marshall looks exhausted and grim, and Erik straightens up into the salute this time. "Sir."

"At ease," Fury rubs a palm over his face. "Care to explain why you upped and left in the middle of a K-event, Lehnsherr?"

Ah. Straight to the point, then. "Xavier was going to die."

"And you made that informed decision _how_? You weren't in LOCCENT."

"Telepathic link," Erik confesses. "I was watching the battle." Awkwardly, he explains Charles' 'experiment' and what he's been doing with Charles' gift, though he leaves out the sense-memory that Charles had shared about their Drift.

"Hn." Fury doesn't look surprised: perhaps Charles told him about it. That pings a little inch of irritation, irrational, that Erik quickly suppresses. It wasn't as though Charles had told him that his 'other means' were going to remain private between them. After all, it wasn't really for Erik's benefit. Charles didn't even think that Erik should have qualified for the Jaeger Academy and-

"Still," Fury adds flatly, "Standing orders in all Shatterdomes is to stay out the fucking way when the jaegers are out in the field."

"Respectfully, sir, Mystique Cerebro was out of operation when I-"

"And what would've happened if Domino Cable hadn't managed to get back up on its feet and terminate that kaiju, hn? You would have been alone out there," Fury growls, "And all of the work from this last year would have been a fucking _waste_ if you had died. You're more valuable than either of those jaegers, and God help me, you're more valuable than their _pilots_."

"Would I be more valuable," Erik manages to grit out, "Than the telepath who has the best chance of conducting a successful neural handshake with me?"

"Xavier tried and failed." Fury points out, though his eyes narrow slightly. 

"I think that his methods might be working."

"And _I_ think that we still have more than two thirds of the world's telepath population to work through, and it'll be _nice_ if one of them works in a natural Drift without all this fucking around with 'links' and 'pings'," Fury snaps, though the anger's drained a little from him, and he just looks tired again. "Look, son. I know you meant well. But you're not fighting a personal war, here. You're a soldier like any soldier. And soldiers follow _orders_."

Erik swallows back his retort, and nods curtly. "Understood, sir."

"Good. Get some sleep. You're going to attempt a neural handshake with Braddock when she gets here."

"You don't sound confident, sir."

"I've got a lot riding on Onslaught Exodus," Fury says wearily, "But it's getting fucking difficult staying positive."

6.0.

Elizabeth Braddock is a steely, quiet young girl who stays polite to everyone up until the moment when she nearly stabs Erik with a psychic knife. Things in the Conn-Pod get a bit confused after that, and Fury's near apoplectic, but no one gets hurt, thankfully, and Erik refuses comment when disengaged. Since Elizabeth has to be sedated, her twin brother is the one who apologizes, flushed and upset. 

"She's never like this normally," Brian Braddock keeps saying, as he runs his hand through his thick blonde hair. "I'm so sorry."

"Save it," Erik retorts curtly, clearly impatient with the infirmary's medics: he jerks his gaze over to one of them. "I'm not hurt. Give me a clean bill of health."

"Your arm-" one of the doctors begins, only to be silenced when Erik bares his teeth.

"I _said_ that I'm _fine_."

"Perhaps we can try this later," Charles tells the doctor soothingly, and the doctor eyes him unhappily for a moment before retreating from the clinic room. "Brian, how are you?"

"Oh, Professor, I didn't see you there," Brian blinks owlishly at him, then he blushes a little. "Um, hi, and I'm okay. I mean, other than this morning, but I'm okay. We're, um, you could come by Hong Kong sometime. Lizzie and Elektra miss you. Orestez, too. And me."

"When I have time, certainly," Charles notes, and he asks soothingly after Elektra and her brother, then about Brian's level of competency with his shielding abilities, until the tall, brash young man calms down and excuses himself after he's called up to launch over the comms. Elektra, apparently, is still recovering from food poisoning, of all things, which is why she hadn't accompanied Elizabeth over for testing.

"You're good with the young," Erik notes, when they're alone in the room, and Charles smiles faintly at him.

"Brian? No, he's a sweet young man. When he's not angry," Charles amends absently. "Elizabeth's normally very gentle as well." 

Erik snorts, clearly disinclined to share Charles' view about a girl who nearly managed to stab him, and glances away, though he sends a query, a curiosity about Charles' current state of health, and Charles responds with a muted sense-memory of a mild headache and the occasional dizziness. He's suffered a concussion and blood loss from the scalp wound, but otherwise he's fine, just a few stitches. 

There's a scowl at the thought of stitches, and Erik's hands clench over his lap. "You're a danger to yourself in the field."

"Am I?" Charles asks, amused, but Erik glares at him.

"You make the wrong decisions. You don't listen to logic. Domino Cable is built to take damage: it's a Mark-III. Instead of charging that kaiju, you should have stepped out of range and fired at it. A Gauss shot or particle cannon fire would have stopped it in its tracks before it could shoot off its EMP."

"I wasn't aware of the EMP."

"Regardless," Erik narrows his eyes, "Mystique Cerebro isn't built for close combat. It's a wonder that it didn't manage to crack open your Conn-Pod as it is."

"We're still alive."

"With two jaegers down and two pilots injured."

" _And_ ," Charles adds gently, "Now they can add EMP shielding to your Onslaught Exodus. And the other non-analog jaegers. So I would not see it as a waste."

"You," Erik snaps, and under his hands, the metal edge of the clinical bench crinkles, warping under his will, "Utterly _frustrate_ me."

"Many things do," Charles tries his best to keep the laughter from his mouth, but he probably doesn't manage to keep it from his eyes: Erik flushes red with anger and exasperation and _oh_ , now Charles feels it, curled deep under the outflow. But of course. Passion comes linked in many facets.

Erik knows that he's sensed it, somehow: his eyes narrow, lips curling up as if into a snarl, then he shoves himself off the bench, striding right up into Charles' personal space; and _this_ , now, this feels like the sea, this pulse of multi-threaded thought-want-frustration-fear, bottled up, bared raw, bearing him down. 

It's Charles that reaches forward, because he's always reached for things that fascinate him, and Erik chokes out a shallow gasp when his fingertips touch his jaw; it's like a shock of warmth, far beyond the relative innocence of the gesture, a slap to the system, raked nails down the studied, careful shields of Charles' usual reserve. 

It's Charles who reaches out, but it's Erik who pulls him over, who _takes_ , with teeth briefly set in his lip and his tongue pressing hungry and fumbling into his mouth: this is the first time that Erik has kissed a man, Charles knows, skimming the curiosity from Erik's thoughts. _It's different_ , Erik whispers, and there's a half-formed sense-memory of a woman's mouth before Erik drags himself away with a gasp and a deepening flush. 

"My apologies," he mutters, glancing away, and Charles laughs. His hands have hooked themselves over Erik's shoulders; Erik's have shifted low to his hips.

"I've seen worse," Charles allows, indulgently, and when Erik frowns at him, he adds, "I trained nearly all of the Jaeger telepaths, Erik - all the adolescents. Their sense-memories are-"

"Not something that I wish to know about," Erik notes gruffly, and seems frozen, as though wondering whether to pull back, then he shifts forward instead, to brush his mouth against Charles' lips, the flat of his tongue ticklish against the seam of Charles' mouth, but when Charles parts his lips, Erik withdraws, watching him steadily again. "Different," he notes.

"Better?"

"Just, _nein_ , just not the same," Erik is as tense as ever, as though contemplating retreat, and Charles gently strokes his shoulders in soothing circles. This is - this is not quite what he expected of all this, when he had first made his offer. Even in a lover's embrace, there's nothing soft-angled about Erik, nothing tender: there's a rawness to his touch that's almost vulnerable in its honesty. 

Charles likes it: he feeds the sensation to Erik, carefully shielded, amplifying it when Erik only lets out a slow exhalation, then he leaves the link in place as he leans over for a kiss, securing a feedback loop of touch and taste and scent that he knows - oh he knows - is intoxicating. He can sense Erik's surprise, his instinctive impulse to pull away, but then Charles deepens the kiss and Erik relaxes, opening his mouth, chasing the taste of Charles-Erik-Charles against the sweep of their tongues.

 _Cheat_ , Erik tells him, rubbing his hands lazily up Charles' spine and shivering as Charles feeds the sensation from the caress back to him, _Your powers - you cheat_.

 _I've never been embarrassed of my ability,_ Charles responds, as Erik allows them a breath before leaning forward again, his next kiss bruising, the sting on his lips from the rasp of teeth delicious.

 _There's nothing about it to be embarrassed about_ , Erik responds, in a slightly confused sense-memory of admiration-wonder with a little touch of envy, and Charles sends back a pulse of amusement couched in a framed mental image of Erik, floating above the seas on a square of metal, an entire Conn-Pod held subject to his will. Erik nips him, as though in reproach about the memory, then groans as Charles tentatively rubs himself against that lovely lean frame, he tries to push Erik back towards the wall but Erik won't budge, and-

"All _righty_ then," Wade notes from the infirmary door, "Maybe I should have knocked."

 _I told him_ , Nathan informs Charles apologetically as Erik jerks back with a startled curse, nearly stumbling. Charles sighs, glancing over to the doorway. It's only Wade, dressed down in a white shirt and combat slacks, leaning heavily on a crutch: his ankle was broken from a system malfunction in the Mark-III. Charles had heard that Wade was lucky that he still _had_ his ankle.

"Wade," Charles notes wryly. "Did you need something?"

"Maybe I just wanted to check if Wonderboy here was okay?" Wade nods at Erik, his grin mischievous. Erik glowers at him, murder in his eyes, then he straightens up and stalks out of the room, nearly shoving Wade out of the way. "Wow," Wade adds, glancing with melodramatic surprise out into the corridor until Erik's footsteps disappear. "You would've thought that I just peed on his carpet or something."

"Nathan could have told you."

"Nathan's useful for many things, useless at others. Like this," Wade watches Charles steadily, "We shouldn't have used the alloy blade like that. It was my call, and it was a bad call. We got pinned, spikes happened. Rookie mistake. Never get pinned."

"No one's hurt."

"Well, someone did nearly drown."

"You're not the only one who made a rookie mistake," Charles notes gently.

"Nathan said that you would say that. He also said," Wade notes dryly, "That he's already had this conversation with you, what with your hippie telepath brain club. But the thing is, there's shit that's better said outside of the Drift. Always is. That's why the first step of compatibility testing is the Kwoon room, isn't it? Hand to hand combat."

Charles frowns at Wade, tilting his head. "I'm afraid that I don't quite understand what you're trying to tell me, Wade."

"Okay," Wade drawls, "Wanna know Wade Wilson's Amazing Theory of Why He Was Compatible with Nathan Priscilla Summers?"

"His middle name isn't Priscilla." 

"You're not paying attention to the important part of my statement, Prof."

"Tell me then," Charles invites, and though he reaches out briefly to Nathan, he can only feel a quiet calm. Nathan's heard this before.

"Compatibility isn't a mutant thing. It's _chemistry_ , y'know, eyes meeting across a room, all that instinct. Telepaths are far more compatible with other mutants because you think, deep down, that they're more _like_ you, and you're more likely to trust someone who's similar rather than different. But there's more to compatibility than a few different genes."

"And that's - Nathan and yourself?"

"Could tell you some seriously girly shit about how when I first saw him I knew he was different," Wade shrugs, "And not because of that fucked up scar over his eye. Pretty sure it's the same between the German and you, hn?"

Different? Yes. Erik was different. Charles had sensed it, when he had first felt around the edges of Erik's mind, outside Fury's office. He knows it again each time he touches it. "You were interrupting my explorations," Charles notes dryly, but Wade doesn't grin: instead, he watches Charles soberly.

"Just so you know, if you want to start any of that kind of thing, it's best to start it _after_ a Drift. Drifts… simplify things. Sometimes too much. Things break, if you're not careful. Telepathy isn't everything: just because you're convinced of something because you've done your psychic mojo doesn't mean that it's the right conclusion." 

Charles isn't sure that he understands Wade's warning, but Nathan stays quiet, and eventually, he ventures, "Nathan and yourself-"

"Oh, we're fine. We've already epically explored all our _feels_ in manly ways and everything," Wade grins, and there's an edge there, something Charles isn't sure of, that he can't touch with Nathan's shields in place. "I'm referring to you. And the German." 

"Noted," Charles says, confused, and Wade tips a playful salute at him before limping out of the infirmary. _Nathan?_ Charles queries, but Nathan remains quiet, thoughtful, and perhaps, Charles realizes wryly, that Wade's little roundabout speech wasn't exactly for Charles' benefit after all. He sends this impression to Nathan, couched in another silent query, and Nathan responds with a wry sort of reassurance-warmth-thanks before he withdraws. 

Shaking his head, Charles edges over to the bench, running his fingers over the warped depressions in the metal edge. In a way, Wade is right, even if the speech wasn't meant for him. There's enough that could go wrong in the Drift without complicating it with the unresolved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I always end up writing until really late, I have a feeling that at the end, when I edit the entirety of the work, I'm going to find a million embarrassing mistakes, eh.


	6. Chapter 6

VII.

The neural handshake with Elektra Natchios is a failure, but at least he doesn't get stabbed or thrown across the Conn-Pod, and there aren't any tears or vomiting. Elektra just looks very pale, all the way until she's out of suit, then she shakes his hand, tight-lipped, and wishes him good luck.

She does, however, greet a slightly bemused-looking Charles with enthusiasm, and soon, Elektra and her co-pilot, her brother Orestez, are chatting animatedly with Charles in the corridor. Erik eyes them flatly for a moment, unsettled by the unfocused irritation that he feels, but when Charles invites him over to join in, he gives them a half-shake of his head and stalks away. 

Summers is in the Kwoon room, which is both exasperating and a bit of a relief. Unlike Charles, Summers has no moral compunctions about the advantage that his ability gives him on the practice mat, and the cadet who's currently learning this to his disadvantage shoots Erik a look of naked relief before scuttling away.

"Where's Wilson?" Erik asks, picking up a practice staff from the rack as he toes off his shoes.

Uncharacteristically, Summers lifts his shoulder into a light shrug. Puzzled, Erik pings Charles before he even thinks about what he's doing, and Charles responds with a jumble of telepathic impressions, an info dump of extra-sensory knowledge. Yes, Summers is still linked to Wilson, and yes, they're shielded tight. 

He realizes that he's being watched closely as he untangles the info dump, and Summers actually smiles, thin and faint. "Not bad."

Erik bares his teeth, bringing up his staff into a guard position, and as an afterthought, he pings Charles again. He doesn't feel anything as the telepathic shield presumably comes up, but Summers narrows his eyes slightly, and his stance changes, grows tighter, more defensive. 

Ahh. Better. 

Wherever Summers learned to fight, he's brutal about it: there's technique in there somewhere, but it's all survivalist's tricks and brawling. It's hard to counter with the formal martial skills taught by the Jaeger Academy, but Erik tries his best, and when a blow lands hard enough against his ribs to bruise, he finds that he's starting to enjoy it. This - violence - this is sharp and pure and uncomplicated, and it's restful, in a way, it's _peace_. 

"You're holding back," he accuses Summers, when they get back to circling each other, and Summers shrugs.

"You're only a cadet, and Fury will have my balls if I break anything," he replies, and when Erik narrows his eyes, he holds up a palm, adding, "I've been a soldier all my life."

Erik's briefly, intensely curious, but he holds it back, bites it down. He charges, with a sharp, offensive kata aimed at Summers' solar plexus, but he sidesteps, parries, and steps out of range instead of following through with a counter attack. Erik spits something at him in German; he can't remember what he says, snarling and frustrated, and Summers merely smiles, faint and inscrutable and just as exasperating as Charles.

There's a faint impression of amusement in the back of his mind, and after a moment, Summers' smile widens. "Are you talking to Charles?" Erik demands, at a sudden suspicion, and Summers snorts, rolling his shoulders. Telepaths, Erik thinks, loudly and viciously, are an-

_Erik_ , Charles interrupts, gentle, though he's laughing now, with a sense-memory of mirth and amusement that's infectious enough that Erik comes up short, gritting his teeth. _Oh, my friend._

_I'm not your friend_ , Erik retorts, with as much resentment as he can manage, but Charles only touches his mind with amusement again, and Summers is wandering over to the rack to return the staff, as though certain that the bout is over. Erik briefly considers attacking him, forcing him back into practice, but he stays his hand, breathing out. The touch in his mind is almost a caress, and it should be unsettling that he's allowed Charles this much.

"Be careful," Summers says, as he sets the staff back in its grooves. "Things said in the Drift cannot be unsaid."

"I've had enough of telepaths and their cryptic mumblings," Erik snaps back. "Resolve your own problems."

_Ah_ , Charles murmurs in Erik's mind, and before Erik can tell him not to, he sends a sense-memory, a thought-impression that's a jumble of questions and half-formed answers: it blindsides him, and he stiffens, inhaling sharply. He should walk away, but somehow, he breathes out instead.

"When you lost Wilson in the Drift, when he was knocked unconscious," Erik frowns and stops, trying to make sense of Charles' information. "You thought that - the neural handshake-"

"I thought that the handshake had failed - that it was a result of… my problem, not his unconsciousness. A brief impression, but sufficiently damaging."

"You panicked and withdrew yourself from Domino Cable." 

Summers nods, his expression briefly pained. "I tried to reconnect immediately, but the disconnect had made the link unstable, and I could only manage enough of the neural load and full control to finish the kill."

" _Mein gott_ ," Erik mutters, furious all of a sudden, and he grits his teeth. That finally explains Summers' reserve, the sense of guilt that Erik had parsed from his approach in the berths. "You - Charles would have _died_."

"I know." Summers makes no pithy remark about field experience, now. "Psychologically speaking, I haven't been fit to pilot a jaeger for a while, but I've only now recognised how much this puts my co-pilot - and my friends - in danger. I'm withdrawing from the Jaeger Program."

Erik blinks rapidly, shocked, and from the quiet in his mind, he wonders if Charles is speaking to Summers, or to Wilson, or if he's known this all along - he tries to reach for Charles' mind, but he only gets a warm sense of distraction. "You can't," he manages to say, finally. "You're a _telepath_."

"A damaged one, and my jaeger is finished," Summers shrugs lightly. "I've tendered my resignation."

"And what did Fury say?"

"Something unprintable, I'm afraid," Summers smiles, very faintly. "But I think that he will come around. I won't abandon the program entirely - I can still teach in the Academy if necessary."

"And what did _Wilson_ say?"

"Ah," Summers inclines his head slightly, and Erik remembers the twitchy tension in Wilson's shoulders when he had interrupted Charles and himself in the infirmary. "He has another life."

Erik doesn't know what to say - he wants to walk out of the Kwoon room, gear up and sit outside in the chill for a while, or stay in the berths with the unresponsive form of his own jaeger, but Charles sends a thought-memory to him, an entreaty, and to his own surprise, he stands his ground. "I'll need your support. With Onslaught Exodus."

"And you'll have it. But if you mean jaeger support," Summers shrugs lightly, "Fury has his pick of all the jaeger teams in the world. Besides, my jaeger will take months to repair, if at all."

"There's still," Erik notes quietly, "Mystique Cerebro. It can be repaired. Modified."

"Mystique Cerebro is Charles'."

"It won't be, when Charles becomes my co-pilot."

This time, the smile is a little warmer, and there's a careful sadness in Summers' one good eye. "You remain oddly confident of that eventuality, Lehnsherr."

He is, and he doesn't know why - statistically, it's an improbability, and objectively, he has to agree with Fury: it'll be easier for them to cycle through the list of telepaths, find a naturally compatible one, but Erik knows. He knows, deep down, within the code of his soul: he thinks perhaps he's known it since Fury's office. Charles is different, and but for the damage and violence that has been done to his soul, Erik thinks perhaps that the original neural handshake would have gone quite differently. 

It's a fierce thought to have, and he clenches his hands, folding them behind his back. "I am confident," he confirms quietly. "And I hope also to be confident of your support _in the field_ , Captain Summers."

"We shall see," Summers replies, though he nods at Erik as he leaves the Kwoon room, with an odd and quiet respect: it's a strange gesture, if Erik hadn't felt the return of Charles' presence only a moment before, a happy, secure warmth in his mind.

_Chess?_ Charles invites, and Erik nods in the silence of the room before he catches himself and sends back an affirmation. They've got a bit of time before he has to meet his next co-pilot candidate, anyway.

It doesn't go well.

Prudence Leighton inclines her head lightly at Erik as they disentangle themselves from the co-pilot seats, and he tries not to shudder. The neural handshake had almost stabilised between them, enough for him to see the start of the blue ocean of the Drift, but he had seen a memory of Charles in her mind and- after that, Erik wasn't entirely sure what happened.

He tries to look blank and neutral as Prudence and her co-pilot Steinbeck murmur something to Charles on their way out of Anchorage, but from the calming touch in his mind he can tell that Charles feels his tension anyway. "She was in a black ops team," he tells Charles later, when they're playing chess in the empty rec room. "An assassin."

Charles nods gently. "She's a friend of Logan."

" _She_ ," Erik grits out, "Was once contracted to kill you."

"Ah, that," Charles notes, with his absolutely infuriating patience. "Yes, we've discussed that."

"You've _discussed_ it?" Do you even know why? _How_ could you simply accept-"

"Oh, she was under orders, and when I was a little younger I did quite make a pest of myself about mutant rights," Charles says with the earnestness of the naive and innocent, "So it wasn't improbable that I would have attracted the wrong sort of attention. Besides, the operation was rather derailed by the kaiju invasion, the Jaeger Program gave mutants the civil rights that we needed, and Prudence disclosed her involvement to me a few months ago." 

"You," Erik begins, finds he can't exactly voice his utter frustration, and throws the sense-memory at Charles, the way he thinks that Charles probably does it, and Charles' hand freezes over his bishop, and he bites down on a grin, reaching over to pat Erik's knee again. It's patronising, and Erik glares at him, but Charles doesn't let up. 

"You shouldn't have actively rejected her in the Drift. The both of you were quite compatible."

"I don't know if I actively did anything," Erik retorts, and frowns. If Fury thinks that-

"Mm, I wonder." Charles withdraws his _verdammt_ hand, at least. "I hope you're not fixating on me as your co-pilot. You see, although I think that we should be ready to try a neural handshake again once my head injury is sufficiently healed, it'll be easier if you could find someone so naturally compatible that you don't need to… condition yourself to them."

" _Mein gott_ , Charles," Erik growls, "If I had seen a rabbit about her once having to kill _Summers_ , or even _Wilson_ , it would have been the same."

He's evading, and it's useless to hide this from a telepath, let alone one whom he's linked to, but Charles merely smiles gently and folds his hands over his lap. Soft hands, Erik recalls, even after the Jaeger Academy. He wonders how often Charles has to practice in the Kwoon room. 

"Not often," Charles answers his question absently, then he chuckles at Erik's expression. "Mystique Cerebro specialises in ranged assists," he reminds Erik, who scowls. He doesn't like to be reminded - Charles is so _ill-suited_ to the field and- "You'll be attempting a link with Astrid Bloom in two hours. I trust that you'll be a little more receptive?"

"Assuming that Miss Bloom hasn't tried to kill you before," Erik bites back before he can stop himself.

"I think that we've avoided that particular moral problem," Charles grins, clearly blithely uninterested in the very idea, and Erik has to stifle another bubble of annoyance. "Erik," Charles adds, amused. "I think we have far bigger problems than the past."

"And what about the future?" Erik challenges, belligerent. "If - _when_ all this is over, what will you do?"

"I suppose it'll be nice to retire to Oxford and the embrace of academia for a while, or perhaps start up my school again," Charles muses. "Mutant civil rights are already in place, and if the Jaeger Program has been good for one thing, it's civil reconciliation. So I suppose a school might not be-"

"And you think that this peace would last?"

"I don't see why not."

Erik snorts. He's old enough to remember growing up with his talents, being told by his mother to learn to hide them or face retribution from the _gringos_ ; he understands prejudice far more keenly than a boy born with a silver spoon of choice in his mouth. 

"What will _you_ do after everything?" Charles prompts, and Erik blinks at him for a long moment. He's never considered the future before, not where he's personally concerned. Not beyond the war, beyond revenge. 

"I don't know," Erik admits then, as much as it annoys him to say so. "I've never thought about it."

Charles chuckles, and it should rankle, but Erik merely stares at him until he swallows his laughter. "I suppose we have far more immediate problems." 

"Bigger problems, if Summers doesn't get over himself."

"It was a shock," Charles notes, gently reproachful. 

"A lapse that nearly caused your death."

"Ah," Charles lifts a shoulder lightly, "Death is a high possibility whenever a pilot suits up. Nathan has already apologised to me, and I've accepted it. He needs a little time." 

"He's found the one person in the world he can still enter the Drift with," Erik snaps, "A rational man would treasure that." There's a sharp vehemence to his tone that startles even himself, and Charles' eyes widen slightly.

"Of course," he notes soothingly, as though gentling a child, and it's with a great deal of effort that Erik holds back his temper. 

He's sullen for the rest of their game, though he does try to force himself back to a neutral mood by the time Astrid Bloom arrives at Anchorage. She's one of Emma's acquaintances or something - Erik doesn't quite recall - and he's a little glad to see that she only greets Charles with a stranger's politeness. Charles sends him a ping of amusement the moment he thinks of this, and he glowers at Charles' back, withdrawing. There's a touch of apology that comes almost instantly, but he ignores it.

7.0.

Charles is a little relieved to see the Bloom sisters get packed off back to Sydney: Yvonne Bloom had been _very_ friendly to Erik - then he has to smile a little to himself. He really shouldn't start thinking of Erik in such _proprietary_ terms. After all-

After all.

He sits in the berths, on a crate, watching the repair of Mystique Cerebro to calm his mind, retain his objectivity. He had almost _hoped_ there - but no. What he has with Erik is an experiment. If Erik finds a naturally compatible pilot, that'll be the end of the matter.

The thought isn't as sanguine as he needs it to be, and Charles breathes out, studying it. It's natural to feel attached to someone whom he's upheld a near-constant neural link to for days, of course. And of course the physical attraction helps - Erik is a remarkably handsome man. But Charles should know better than this. He has better control than this.

Distracted, he doesn't notice Tony Stark's approach until the young man hauls himself up onto the crate beside him, grinning his familiar, irrepressible grin. The Stark family is heavily invested in the Jaeger Program - the moment the kaiju threat had begun, Tony had dropped out of MIT and had assigned himself into anti-kaiju tech, eventually emerging as the de-facto progenitor of the Jaeger tech endeavour. Mystique Cerebro is his fourth full project, unassisted by his father, and Tony seems to treat his jaegers' pilots with the same blithe familiarity as he approaches technology. 

"Hey, Prof," he greets Charles, his hands blackened with engine grease, "I'll shake hands, but I'm 'fraid I'm only taking a break."

"Sorry about the damage," Charles notes wryly. "You didn't have to fly out here."

"Why wouldn't I fly out here?" Tony drawls, jerking his thumb back at Mystique Cerebro. "She's one of my _babies_ , and she's been hurt bad."

"So it isn't about Onslaught Exodus at all?"

Tony pulls a face. "Seriously, I'm telling you, Reed Richards is - okay, he's good, I give you that, but the shit he builds has a tendency to explode."

"His jaegers have been explosion free to date." 

"Yeah, well, they get outfitted by Stark Tech before they're ready to rumble," Tony scowls, "And we're not above making the occasional adjustment. I'm not saying that he doesn't have good ideas, just that, sometimes his ideas are fucked."

"Noted," Charles says, amused. Tony has run up a decidedly one-sided rivalry against the much older Reed Richards, rather to Doctor Richards' bemusement: ever since Logan had made a semi-joking offer to Fury to do a J-tech dept swap a few months back. Charles doesn't remember the context, but Tony had been outraged, and it had taken both Jean _and_ Charles to calm him down. 

"You could come back to Lima, you know," Tony notes hopefully. "It's been quiet, and Miss Frost is a psychopath."

"That's not a nice thing to say, Tony."

"It's a true thing to say," Tony retorts mulishly, "Besides, even Logan kinda misses you, except that it's not manly to admit it or whatever his problem is, and Jean keeps bitching and whining to me about Scott, which she used to do with you, I think, so you should come back to Lima before I lose my shit and stab everyone."

"I'm sure," Charles notes dryly, "That you'll be able to contain yourself, Tony."

"Sure," Tony tells him mournfully, "But when I'm arrested with blood on my hands, just remember that it's your fault. Seriously. Those two. Hurt my brain."

"I could speak to Jean."

"Yeah, tell her to get over herself. Maybe if she sleeps with Logan and Scott at the same time it'll-" Tony breaks off into a laugh when Charles freezes, "Hey, Logan will probably be open for it. He's open to a lot of things. I should know."

Charles doesn't want to know why Tony knows, but he can see why off the surface of Tony's mind, and he blanches. Young Tony Stark truly has no shame, and Charles has had no idea that Marshall Logan and Tony had anything more than a professional relationship - at least until now. "Perhaps we'll let them resolve their own problems." 

"But then they'll be at it _forever_ ," Tony moans. "And possibly dead. I know how to get rid of bodies."

"They can't be both at the same time," Charles notes absently, and Tony laughs again, leaning over to hug Charles tightly, careful to keep the worst of the grease on his hands off Charles' clothes. 

"I really missed you, Prof." 

Charles gently disentangles Tony from himself without touching the engine filth. "It's only been a short time, Tony."

"I _know_ ," Tony pouts. "But I'm telling you, I'm going stir crazy over there."

"I'll send Logan a note."

"I guess I can see why you wanted to stay," Tony adds. "That Lehnsherr is really hot."

" _Tony_ ," Charles remonstrates, but Tony merely grins impishly at him, and slips off the crate. 

"I'll get back to work. She'll be as good as new in no time." Tony glances up at Mystique Cerebro, then back to Charles. "I could probably install more firmware if I remove the co-pilot cradle. It's not like you need it." 

"Don't make the modifications yet." Charles says instantly, then adds, a little awkwardly, "It'll make it difficult to turn the jaeger over to any other piloting team, should it ever become necessary."

"Sure," Tony agrees, though he straightens up. "Guess we should-"

The alarms go off, interrupting Tony, and Tony pales, tensing up. "I haven't reinstalled the Gauss cannon!"

Charles grimaces, then he lets out a breath, and slips off the crates. "Is it operational? Shielded?"

"Sure," Tony says doubtfully, "But you'll be heading out there with just the particle cannon and no back-up. You've never fought solo before." 

"I'll manage." He will. He'll have to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Astrid Bloom + Yvonne Bloom - Red Queen - Sydney  
> Elias Bogan + Tessa - Lord Imperial - Tokyo  
> Elizabeth Braddock + Brian Braddock - Brittanic Psylocke - Hong kong  
> Martha Franklin + John Gallow - Richochet Spider - Los Angeles  
> Mikula Gobulev + Zvezda Dennista - Morning Star - Vladivostok  
> Emma Frost + Janos Questad - Riptide Frost - (Anchorage) Lima  
> Prudence Leighton + Steinbeck - Pyro Dagger - Vladivostok  
> Jean Grey + Logan - Wolverine Phoenix - Lima  
> Artie Maddicks + Everett Thomas - Skin Synch - Sydney  
> Danielle Moonstar + Rahne Sinclair - Wolfsbane Mirage - Los Angeles  
> Elektra Natchios + Orestez Natchios - Dare Devil - Hong Kong  
> Shortpack + Jean Phillipe - Fantomex Diablo - Panama City  
> Nathan Summers + (Neena Thurman) Wade Wilson - Domino Cable - Anchorage  
> Rachel Summers + Kitty Pryde - Sprite Revenant - Tokyo  
> Charles Xavier - (Lima) Anchorage


	7. Chapter 7

VIII.

Erik finds Fury where the Marshall inevitably is in a potential K-event: in LOCCENT, watching the radar tensely. It's another Category IV, and right now it's anyone's call from its trajectory whether it's heading for Anchorage territory or further south, for Los Angeles.

Despite this, Charles is getting suited up, ready for deployment into a still damaged jaeger, and even if Mystique Cerebro was fully functional, it's unclear whether Charles can handle a Category IV by himself. Very. Unclear.

Wilson's leaning against the wall closest to the door, and he mock-salutes Erik when Erik glances over to him. Summers is nowhere to be seen, and Erik exhales irritably, stepping over to Fury. 

"It'll be coming for us," Marshall Fury predicts, "Those bastards have some sort of hive mind intel. They know that we're hurting."

"Ricochet Spider and Wolfsbane Mirage are ready to assist if necessary," Maria Hill is synched up to the other Shatterdome's Marshall, frantically typing at her console. 

Fury shakes his head. "They can't leave their coastline unguarded, and if it runs trajectory to us, they'll be too far to assist." 

"With all due respect," Maria narrows her eyes, "Mystique Cerebro is not cleared for the field."

"It's all that we've fucking _got_ , God help us all." 

"Have a little faith, Lieutenant," Charles' voice cuts into LOCCENT, amused, and that's the last straw: Erik marches up to Fury.

"Marshall."

"I'm busy here, Cadet."

"You have at least an hour before the trajectory's confirmed," Erik forces himself to stay calm. "Enough time for me to attempt a neural handshake with Charles."

Fury rounds on him, teeth bared. "Lehnsherr, I don't have time for your shit-"

"Mystique Cerebro can't handle a Category IV by itself. You _know_ this," Erik snaps, "You're sending Charles out there to die!"

"If he isn't enough to put it down, then he'll fucking buy enough goddamned time for whatever coastline city's in the way to evacuate," Fury shoots back, "Enough time for backup to come from LA." 

"But you'll lose another jaeger and a telepath. Sir," Erik states flatly, "Or, we can put Onslaught Exodus out in the field and get us that kill."

"Strong words for someone whose neural handshakes have all been fucking disasters-"

"I'm confident this time round," Erik interrupts, "And we have the time. _We have the time_. If the neural handshake fails again, then… then send Mystique Cerebro out by itself. But if it doesn't, then you'll have a full complement."

"And what if the neural handshake fails in the middle of the field, hn?" 

"Then Mystique Cerebro can finish the job by itself. You have another pair of pilots in this Shatterdome." 

Fury sucks in a sharp breath, and for a moment, Erik braces himself for the brunt of the Marshall's infamous temper - then he exhales loudly. "Fine. Lehnsherr, get suited up. Xavier, get to Onslaught Exodus' Conn-Pod. Wilson, your ankle-"

"Nothing a fuck load of drugs and a brace can't handle."

"Marshall-" Summers cuts in over the comms.

"Get fucking over yourself, Summers. You can bitch and moan all you like _after_ this Category IV is ground into the sea floor, you hear me?"

"Sir," Summers says curtly, "Yes, sir."

Erik doesn't remember the trip to the drivesuit room - it's all a painful blur of anticipation. He doesn't even start to doubt himself until he steps into the Conn-Pod and sees that Charles is already settled into the co-pilot cradle. A gentle touch presses against his mind, and a little reluctantly, he welcomes it as he gets in place.

Now that he's come this far, he's not even sure if this will work, and his conviction, earlier in LOCCENT, now feels like bravado. Maybe they'll be wasting everyone's time. Maybe the kaiju will make landfall while they're still-

 _Peace_ , Charles tells him, and despite his doubts, Erik nods. Calm. Concentrating on his breathing, he only barely registers the tremor as the Conn-Pod disengages from base, though he grits his teeth as he feels it settle into Onslaught Exodus. Now. It's now or-

"Initiating neural handshake in five," Fury's voice cuts over the comm, "Four. Three. Two."

Entering the Drift is still like drowning, but this time, when he feels the calming press of Charles' mind around his, he doesn't panic and pull away. _Slow_ , Charles tells him, as he instinctively tries to touch the sense-memories around him, jumbled together, his _and_ Charles', and he lets go, allowing them to flow around him, leaving the memories supple. It's the only way to sort out a sense-memory without getting overwhelmed: he's learned that much - and Erik finds himself just breathing in, and out. 

His heartbeat's like a hammering roar in his ears, and he feels like he's oversensitised, that he can feel every fingertip, even the sensation of the locked boots around his toes. Distantly, he can hear Fury's voice, muttering something about 'fucking awful engagement percentages', and he grins sharply. He's going to bleed something today. He's finally going to-

 _Erik - hold, Erik, I can't, let that go, please, Erik_ , Charles' voice is louder in his voice now, and through a deep fog, Fury's shouting, "Xavier! Fucking hell, not again - power down-"

 _NOT YET_ , Charles projects, and it's so loud that Erik flinches, blinking and shocked, reaching instinctively for Charles, and it's with a confused jumble of thought-knowledge and sense-memory that he realizes that they're linked, closer than they ever have been, how had that…?

Drift. They're _drifting_. Erik breathes out shakily, and tenses up, even as he feels Charles laugh in his mind, strained but joyous. _Gods, oh Gods, this is difficult_ , Charles tells him, _Even when you're not fighting me._

He sends Charles an unformed apology, trying to stay calm as he hears Charles announce, both in his mind and out, "Commencing full synchronisation."

"God help us all," Fury echoes grimly, and there's a - there's a sense like an _anchor_ , a binding chain, over his entire body all of a sudden, but even as Erik startles, he feels the press of Charles' mind against him, holding his in place, and he breathes out shakily. In. Out.

Then the amp kicks in even as his mind seems to - his mind seems to _explode_. There's no words to describe it, the sudden transcendent meld of his mind to Charles' and to some strange alien pressure - _Onslaught Exodus_ , Charles tells him - and then Erik moves his head, experimentally. Out beyond the HUD screen, the cockpit view of the berths changes smoothly.

Cheers break out in LOCCENT, but Charles feels distracted, as though he isn't even listening. _Charles_ , Erik prompts, even as Fury asks, "Xavier, status."

"I… it's a strain," Charles' voice is shaky, "We're holding. But this is harder than piloting a jaeger by myself. I'm not sure - no, I'll hold, for as long as we have to. Ready to deploy, Marshall."

"Don't fuck this up," Fury offers, with a grunt. "The Category IV's heading towards our zone. You're both going in."

8.0.

This is worse than bearing a neural load by himself: the handshake with Erik fluctuates constantly, requiring his full attention to hold it in drift with Onslaught Exodus. Sometimes, Erik is calm, and the sync is perfect, the flow of the drift is an exhilarating creature, full of promise. Most of the time, however, he has to watch his footing, steer around Erik's thankfully dampened impulses, his temper, keeping him steadied.

Erik tries to help, he can sense it: and their experiment has done its work, after all - he doesn't consciously reject Charles' telepathic touch. Sometimes he clings to the link, as though frightened of letting go, suffocating as that feels in the drift, but most of the time, he allows Charles to steer him, inviting the nudges that keep him from chasing the rabbit. 

Charles tries to pace himself, but he thinks - Gods, he thinks perhaps that he can hold this for two hours, maybe three. Hopefully that's enough. 

_It will be_ , Erik tells him through the drift, _It will be enough._

Onslaught Exodus lands in the waves with an impact that he feels, Charles realizes with a growing sense of wonder, _through_ Erik. The amp has leashed Erik's remarkable power in place: held in the drift, Erik and his jaeger are almost inseparable. He senses, rather than knows, that Onslaught Exodus is fitted with a payload of the latest Perseus-II hypersonic cruise missiles, set in a shoulder launch, and along its left arm is the latest offering from Reed Richards' brilliant mind: a prototype tachyonic particle cannon, designed to be charged on the fly. There's also an adamantium alloy chainblade equipped on the right, but other than that, there's nothing Charles can sense that is wildly different from a usual jaeger spec, and he's briefly disappointed.

Erik laughs in his mind. _Weapons aren't what is different_ , he tells Charles, and Charles feels him roll his shoulders, limbering up. There's only a fraction of a second in delay before Onslaught Exodus, too, rolls its shoulders, _somehow_ , fluid and impossible. The engineering is marvellous in its detail - a Reed Richards speciality - and Charles wonders if Erik had known this before, if Erik had known that this would be what it would be like.

 _No_ , Erik whispers, and there's a rush of warmth and yes, _joy_ in Erik's voice, in the press of his mind, and the sync twists perfect for a moment before Charles has to fight to keep steady again, buffeted by bloodlust.

 _Erik_ , Charles protests, and thankfully, with some effort, Erik calms down.

"-approaching," Charles finally registers Fury's voice. "Mystique Cerebro, support range. Onslaught Exodus, intercept." 

Something hulking and vast is hoisting itself out of the waves, a black figure of nightmare against the darkening evening sky, crowned with huge, knife-like forward pointing horns, its bloated body gigantic and supported by four trunk-like legs. It shrieks, against the sky, then it seems to hunch forward, and across the expanse of its back, bluish boils bubble upwards.

"What in the world-" Fury starts, then the boils start to explode, in a rippling wave, launching _something_ into the air. Charles doesn't see what lands close to them, but he feels the swing of movement as Erik instinctively kicks it away: and now Charles sees the curled, many-legged tick-like monstrosity that hovers briefly in the air before it explodes, spraying blue acid.

"Yesterday I thought that the kaiju couldn't get _more_ gross," Wilson comments over the comms, with fascinated horror. "That is _sick_."

"Focus fire on the kaiju," Erik snaps, "I'll sweep and clear." 

"On it." Mystique Cerebro's particle cannon is charging up, and sensors indicate that Nate and Wilson are wisely moving out of range. Erik's drawn his chainblade, bringing it in a tight arc that cuts another tick out of the air, then he sidesteps to avoid another, kicking it away. One climbs up his-their leg, but with Onslaught Exodus' tailored dexterity, Erik lets out a curse in German and plucks it off, tossing it aside even as it explodes. 

Behind them, the particle cannon flashes - the shot takes the kaiju high in the shoulder as it twists to evade, and it roars, shaking itself. More giant ticks scatter into the waves, nearly as large as a jaeger's fist, and Erik advances, occasionally stabbing the chainsword into the water, sometimes sidestepping, once stamping down hard. The acid speckles the reinforced armour of his-their boot, but the double polycarbon armor survives with only surface damage. 

The kaiju's weirdly fast: it shakes itself again, then it lunges forward, evading another particle shot, charging straight at them. Erik has the tachyon cannon lined up, but the first shot goes wide as the kaiju suddenly twists to the side - then Erik's laughing, rough with bloodlust, as the kaiju, in evading, jumps straight into the path of a cruise missile. 

It stumbles, and shrieks as a particle shot from Mystique Cerebro catches it high on its back, then Erik steps back, swinging down the chainsword, and severs its head from its bloated shoulders. 

The kaiju collapses into the waves in a tottering mountain, and Charles' control nearly slips under the furious edge of Erik's triumph. _Erik_ , he calls desperately. 

_We've won,_ Erik retorts, _Mein gott, don't you feel it? How can you get a kill and feel nothing-_

 _Clear out the rest of the bugs,_ Charles interrupts, and Erik snaps something at him that's all temper and frustration, almost shoving Charles out of the drift immediately, but then he seems to force himself to calm down, breathing out. "Mission control," Erik begins, "Sweep and clean."

"Onslaught Exodus, watch your back!" Nathan snaps over the comms, along with Wilson's shocked, "Holy mother of fuck."

They turn back to the downed kaiju, and it's - it's back is splitting open, like a spoiled fruit, and twisting out from it is a coiled kaiju, snake-like, with little grasping legs along its side. It uncurls, its jaw stretching open impossibly wide, then it darts forward with a low hiss. Erik dodges, and it's only Onslaught Exodus' perfectly paired reflexes that save them from impact - the snake-thing slides into the waves. 

"We've got a shot lined when it shows its fangs again," Wilson says, then spits, "Ahh Jesus-"

"Mystique Cerebro, report." Fury cuts in.

"Those fucking bug things that _fucking explode_ ," Wilson growls, an edge in his voice, even as Nathan states, "Damage to the particle accelerator." 

"Withdraw," Fury snaps. "Get to the yellow zone."

"But-" 

"Withdraw _now_ , Summers." 

"Acknowledged." Nathan says reluctantly, and Charles feels the brief touch of encouragement and apology in his mind. They're on their own. 

They scan the waves, Charles trying to fight over the tension in Erik's mind, barely regaining his footing before Erik snaps, "Summers, _move_!" 

They're starting into a run, but the kaiju has reared out of the waves, too close to the retreating jaeger: it spits a brilliant blue gob at its Conn-Pod, but Mystique Cerebro twists aside, catching the acid high on its shoulder instead, the metal bubbling as it's eaten through. 

Erik swears, in a jumbled mental jigsaw of anger-outrage-bloodlust that's so sharp and intense that Charles gets blindsided: he touches a memory of a woman's smile, her hair richly dark and flower-scented, of a little girl, laughing, with Erik's eyes and her mother's hair, in a beautiful blue frock, scrambling out of a playground into his arms-

"Xavier's chasing the rabbit!" Fury snaps, but his voice is far away and distant, and Charles is picking up the girl, laughing, speaking something in German or Polish, he can't tell in the snatch of memory. Then the sky's darkening and he can hear the warning sirens, and he's - he's on the streets, in the middle of a full blown panic, his daughter in his arms and Magda's hand clutched tight in his. He knows this is a shortcut, he assures Magda that they'll get there, they _will_ , as he pulls her down an alley away from the stampeding crowds despite her protests. 

It's a mistake. The kaiju is striding down the other street, systematically destroying any human in its path, and occasionally it roars, shooting a stream of something viscous and bright blue from its mouth that ignites even metal and stone. He tries to pull them back, to retreat, but they've been noticed, they've - it's coming for them, shouldering aside the narrower brick walls of the buildings towering to either side of them with ease, hissing, Anya is screaming and he throws a dumpster at the monster that glances off its snout, but that only enrages it, that- 

It spits, and at the last minute, Magda wildly shoves him away, sending him and Anya sprawling into a shophouse. He stumbles up, sees her raise her hands briefly, and Anya twists out of his arms with a shriek, lunging out of the shophouse towards her mother despite his grab, and Gods, and Gods, the explosion, the _smell_ , oh Gods, he's crying, screaming, he's-

 _Charles, Charles, please,_ Erik's voice is searingly loud in his mind, _Link me back up, please, Charles! Nate and Wade, they're - Charles!_

He's - he's tangled up in metal and Gods where are they, where's Magda and-

 _Peace_ , Erik pleads, and then he unloads a sense-memory too vivid to unpack all at once, of Charles, grinning as he takes another of Erik's pawns, of Charles, prim and sleek as he weaves past technicians in the berths, Charles' poise in the Kwoon room, staff in hand, there's a fierceness to it all, a possessive, almost desperate touch, and Charles breathes in. Out. Yes. 

Erik's mind relaxes as the sync comes back online, easier this time around, if a little shaky along the edges. He concentrates on holding the link in place as Onslaught Exodus strides forward, to where Mystique Cerebro is on its knees, the snake kaiju wound crushingly tight around it, metal squealing as it tries to get at the Conn-Pod, metal dissolving-

Onslaught Exodus grabs it with a quick jerk of its hand under its neck, and severs its head with a swing of the chainsword. The kaiju's head gets tossed unceremoniously into the sea, then he carefully unwinds the corpse from Mystique Cerebro and drags it out before slicing it methodically open with the chainsword. Charles fights to keep his stomach settled, as Erik surveys the kaiju's guts and grunts. 

"Summers."

"We're fine," Nathan's voice is slightly unsteady.

"No we're fucking not," Wilson growls, "I think I need a new pair of pants."

"Kaiju down," Marshall Fury announces, and there's a cheer in Mission Control that rings in a bright roar over the comm. "But you cut it goddamned close there, the two of you. Jesus Christ."

He can feel Erik settling back as they wait for evac, and the touch of Erik's mind against his is more confident now, firmer. Charles meets him back in an automatic caress before he remembers himself, but this time, Erik doesn't jerk away.


	8. Chapter 8

.cable

Sometimes it's a relief to get a change of scenery. The bar near the Shatterdome is used to the Jaeger Academy and its mutants, and the human bartender serves up a decent whisky on the rocks without even looking twice at Nathan's scar.

He isn't in the mood for company, today, but he knows that the Shatterdome exists only under the sufferance of its host city, and he's carefully friendly when people come up to him to ask him questions. Still, Nathan's getting restless by the time the bar's closing, but at least the alcohol's warm on his nerves, and he's growing mellow as the night grows colder. 

By the time Nathan stumbles out into the snow, breath huffing into steam, he's a little unsurprised to see Wade waiting for him outside the bar, shoulder propped against a brick wall. The mercenary grins, all mayhem and mischief, and falls into step as Nathan carefully picks his way back towards the vast dark curve of the Shatterdome at the port. 

"Could've blown off steam at the Kwoon room."

"Maybe I just wanted to get drunk," Nathan retorts. He can feel the touch of Wade's mind against his, but he refuses to let him through. It's a wonder that they survived Bloater's attack - a miracle that Charles had managed to relink the Drift in time. Maybe if they had been quicker-

"Look," Wade growls, narrowing his eyes, "Mystique Cerebro was pretty damaged even at the start. No blade, only one projectile weapon, and it was a goddamned particle cannon. We did fine out there. As well as we could."

"It isn't your fault."

"My fucking point," Wade snarls, and there's enough anger in his voice that Nathan comes up short, blinking, "Is that it wasn't _your_ fucking fault _either_. What is this, Days of Our Lives And Jaegers? Shit happens. We stop moping and move on. Plenty more of those bastards to shoot at or stab."

"I'm a danger out on the field." His reflexes are slow, slower than Wade's, and he knows - Mother Askani - he knows how this will all end. Foreknowledge is a painful thing, the worst part of being a man out of time. So far, he has managed to change nothing. 

"Yep, you're a danger to the _kaiju_ out in the field," Wade snaps, getting a grip on his elbow and tugging until Nathan keeps walking. "Get over yourself. So what if you've done zilch against the big picture so far? You've still kept oodles of maple syrup eaters from kicking up to the Big Pancake in the Sky. Maybe that helps."

Sometimes he forgets that he has no secrets from Wade because of the Drift. Wade, too, has seen his future, of the losing war that humanity is battling against the kaiju's master race. The giant creatures are but war machines: in this time period, their masters have yet to show their faces.

When they do - that's the signal that the end has come.

"We still have time," Wade retorts, as though he's heard. "Onslaught Exodus is operational. Stage two is coming up."

"But it will fail," Nathan murmurs. Something - something else needs to be changed, but he doesn't know what, and he's running out of time. Mother Askani doesn't have very much information about the Onslaught Project.

"But it hasn't failed _yet_." Wade punches him in the arm, hard enough for him to wince. "So cheer up, Priscilla. The future hasn't yet happened. We're a new kill down in a new jaeger. And I'm not being fucking paid to be your psychologist. So let me in, or I'm going to kick your ass."

He has to smile at that - he always does. Nathan relinks them, his mind grasping gratefully for the familiar, effervescent touch of Wade's mind, and Wade steps into his arms even as he reaches out for him, their lips frozen cold as they kiss, noses bumping. 

_You give me hope_ , Nathan telesends, as Wade curls back into place in his mind and against his body, the puffs of their breaths mingling in the freezing chill. _That, more than anything-_

"Hey," Wade presses a heavy mitt over his face, playfully. "Don't get sappy on me out here, old man. My balls are going to freeze off. Let's at least get warm before you keep reenacting Days of our Jaeger Lives."

"I thought it was Days of our Lives and Jaegers." Nathan turns Wade's hand away, gets a grin for his efforts. 

"Whatever. It's cold, and I have more whisky in my room. I'm not sure why we're still standing out here." Wade tugs, and when Nathan doesn't immediately move, he sighs, leaning up for another, softer kiss. "Hey. I'm still here. We're both still here."

"For how long more?"

"I don't care," Wade shrugs, and there's a nip in his kiss now, as he turns up his mouth. "As long as you're there." 

Nathan sucks in a slow, shaky breath, and he closes his eyes briefly. Maybe this is what's different: he cares about this war now, because of Wade, more than he ever has, even when he grew up on the losing side of it. Maybe things _will_ change.

.erik

It's always like this after a kill, this barely restrained anticipation-want-tension that catches them: they're always impatient when getting out of suit, almost stumbling by the time they get to Charles' room - it's closer to the drivesuit room. Today Charles is laughing when Erik shoves him through the door, but when he slams it close behind them with a thought, Charles is in his arms, the momentum knocking them both against the door, and they kiss like they're pulling into the drift, desperate and hungry.

"You're in a good mood," Erik grunts, between breaths, trying to manhandle them both towards the bed. Usually Charles is quiet after a kill, distracted: the lust is there, of course, but he's always thinking of something else. It's the violence and the death: despite everything, this still spooks Charles. 

"No neural breaks today," Charles reminds him, with a grin. They got their third kill today, and although Charles is technically right, it was a near thing. He sends Charles this impression, and Charles grins at him, squeezing his shoulder as Erik deposits them both on his bunk. They kiss again, more slowly, careful and measured now: Charles is purring by the time they start on each other's clothes, their fingers fumbling, and Erik grins sharply as Charles opens the neural connection wide, their payload of sensory impressions merging together.

It gets - after that - well. Erik doesn't have much of a bar to compare Charles to, but sex with a telepath is _insane_. Around him, Charles' mind flicks with amusement as he nips Erik's lips and licks into his mouth, and even as Erik sucks lightly on Charles' tongue, he feels the shocky echo of sensation around his own, and Gods, he'll lose his mind if it wasn't folded around Charles'. Charles smirks at him as he rides up Erik's thigh, and Erik gasps as he feels the rough friction against his own cock. 

He makes a mess of the steel drawers and the books balanced on top as he drags out the drawer and pulls the lube to him, his control shot to hell as Charles gets leverage under his heels and flips them over, licking down to close his lush mouth over a nipple, his brilliant blue eyes rich with lust and promise. The aftermath of a drift doesn't affect Charles as badly as Erik: telepaths are more or less always in drift, after all - but he's fed through with Erik's want-need-more now, and his fingers skitter and scratch as Erik hauls him up for a biting kiss, fumbling the lube awkwardly over his hands and fingers. 

Charles always goes beautifully quiet whenever Erik presses his fingers into him, wide-eyed, biting down lightly on his reddening mouth. Erik kisses him, rough, chasing the touch of his teeth as he curves Charles against him: they fit together here as they fit on the drift, push-pulling at each other, sometimes slip-sliding out of sync, but he won't have it any other way.

This is always frenzied and rushed right after a kill: they're high on adrenaline and on each other and when Erik slides in, it's gritty and probably still too soon, but Charles growls and bites hard on his shoulder and he shoves in the rest of the way to the hilt with a grunt. He'll make this up to Charles later, he will - he sends Charles a jumbled sense-memory, and Charles retaliates by setting his palms against Erik's cheeks and feeding through a jolt of ecstasy, a shock of pure sensation that has him thrusting wildly and shouting his throat raw; Charles is laughing, somewhere, fey and loud and breathless, and it's always too much, this, just like the Drift - Charles is too much for him.

Erik curls against Charles' back as they catch their breath, and he growls half-heartedly as Charles skips fingers up his naked flank, his grin lazy and playful. He failed a neural handshake yesterday, with the last of Fury's list of telepaths, and in a way, he's relieved. He doesn't want to trade up Charles, shaky as their neural handshake can be if Erik doesn't watch himself. He doesn't want-

"Shh," Charles murmurs, and at the caress over his mind, Erik relaxes, nuzzling the elegant curve of Charles' shoulders. "Poor Danielle was rather relieved."

Erik snorts. Danielle Moonstar had shot him a rabbity and uncomfortable look when she had first laid eyes on him, and then had shot Charles an equally intense look of pleading. It had taken a great deal of cajoling from both Charles and Nathan to get her into the Conn-Pod to try the Drift, and her co-pilot Rahne had fussed around the drivesuit room the whole while. 

"Far too many pilots are barely out of childhood," Erik says by way of response. Jean Grey, Elizabeth, Danielle, Rachel and Artie are all far too young for war. It's a pity that they're locked into it by sheer reason of their skills. 

"It may change soon," Charles turns around, until he can watch Erik soberly. "The Rift bomb."

Erik settles Charles absently against him, shrugging lightly. "Rift bombs have been tried before. No one gets near the Rift without kaiju interference."

"Fury's confident about us," Charles notes, with the careful indolence of the naive, and Erik bites him on the shoulder in reproach. Charles, however, simply grins, and feeds the pain back to him - Erik winces and glowers, but then he kisses the reddened mark, feels the ghost of lips against his own skin. 

Stage two of the Onslaught project. The end of the kaiju war. It seems unbelievable, and besides, Charles has never been able to hold a stable connection for more than two hours at a stretch. It'll take longer than that for them to reach the Rift from a safe drop zone. Even longer to fight its guardians. 

"We're getting better," Charles points out, as Erik rubs at his hip. "And we'll get stronger."

Together, Erik echoes the word left unsaid, and small fingers close over his own, squeezing tight over his knuckles.

.wade

"I think we should get a logo," Wade tells Nate one morning as he's curled over Nate's bunk, still in the dry spot, ha, while Nate's off in the bathroom trying to get himself to look less old. Good luck with that, Nate. "Wolverine Phoenix have an awesome logo."

"We do have a logo," Nate tells him, his voice a little muffled from behind the bathroom door.

"No, that's your logo with Neena," Wade points out, with a little scowl. He likes Neena, he really does, but whoever designed the logo for Domino Cable needs to be shot in the head. Playing cards? Really? "And we should rename Mystique Cerebro, because that name? Seriously."

There's a sound of a tap, then Nate emerges, still slightly damp, and he frowns at Wade as though trying to figure out why Wade isn't dressed yet. "What's wrong with it?"

"Doesn't roll off the tongue." 

"Have you brought this up with Fury?"

"I sure will," Wade says loftily, though he deflates a little, and scuttles off to use the bathroom, By the time he's done, Nathan's Future!OCD has him tidying up the room and bundling the soiled sheets into a ball. This is why Wade keeps his own room. Nathan's one looks clean and organised enough to be on the cover photo of IKEA's Shatterdome Edition.

"It's not a bad idea," Nate says, just as Wade's stumbled into a happy memory of breaking into an IKEA over in Melbourne, once, just to steal a fuck ton of meatballs. 

"Meatballs?"

"What?" Nate blinks. "I meant the logo."

"Oh." Wade perks up. "I have _so_ many ideas."

"I know that you do," Nate says dryly, "And I'm going to veto the one about the chimichangas."

"Spoilsport. That would be a good name for a jaeger with you as a co-pilot, by the way. 'Spoilsport Maximum'."

"And 'Deadpool' is a better name?"

"What's wrong with Deadpool?" Wade scowls. "It's a good name. It has the word 'dead', which is how I like my kaijus, and 'pool', which is where we normally fight the bastards."

"'Sea' would be more accurate."

"Except 'Dead Sea' is kinda a place, and 'pool' is more fun. More exciting. More us."

"Right," Nate drawls - the poor bastard's probably never seen a pool in his life, Wade realizes. The future totally sucks.

"It has its benefits," Nate finishes tidying up the sheets into a laundry bag, and then he adds, "Also, no zombie logos. And 'More Awesome Than Wolverine' will never get cleared."

"We're never going to have any fun," Wade notes mournfully, though he allows Nate to lean over for a quick peck on the mouth. He can feel Nate's retort, something about how the kaiju war isn't meant to be fun, but Nate merely smiles faintly and kisses him again, this time a little harder, before he pulls back.

"See," Wade blinks, "The future's changing already."

"It is?"

"The stick up your ass is getting noticeably smaller."

"Ah," Nate grins, and there's a sly amusement there that is not quite Nate-like.

"If you make a dick joke right now, I think my brain's going to explode."

"I thought that you liked change."

"I like change in _moderation_."

.charles

The kaiju are mutating, faster than jaeger tech can keep up, and the world governments are growing afraid. It's unbelievable to think that over the past few months, they've gone from eight functional Shatterdomes down to one - Hong Kong. Gone from fifteen jaeger teams to four.

Hong Kong looks more like a neon-lit slum rather than the eclectic city that Charles remembers, pre-kaiju, and he settles himself in a small, quiet eatery off a side street, warming his hands on a bowl of noodles. Just like Nathan, sometimes Charles likes to leave the Shatterdome for a while, feel the press of humanity itself against his shields.

Erik's still in the Shatterdome, discussing the strategies of the days to come with Marshall Fury and Logan, and Charles listens in absently as he tucks into dinner. He's a quarter through the fragrant hand-made noodles by the time Jean sits down beside him at the counter bench, ordering a bowl for herself, and she leans against him as he curls his arm briefly around her shoulders. 

"We're losing the war," she murmurs, and Jean looks older than her age, far more tired than she should be. 

"We've been losing the war for a long time," Charles admits, because there's no point faking sentiment in front of one of his own students, and because they've lost so many of their own now that to try to sound positive about their situation seems almost disrespectful.

Jean nods slowly, as though she hadn't even needed the confirmation. "Do you think that Richards' plan will work?"

"Tony doesn't think so." 

Jean pulls a face. "Tony thinks a lot of things." 

Charles has to agree on that point, and besides, K-Science is something outside of Tony's usual ambit of expertise. "It's not our concern," he tries telling Jean soothingly.

"It's Logan's concern, which means that it's mine," Jean grumbles, and stares at her hands, even as a bowl of noodles is set down in front of her. "Whatever it is, it doesn't look good."

"I wouldn't say so." Charles picks up another spool of noodles expertly with his chopsticks. Jean watches him for a moment, intent, then their minds touch, and when she starts on her own bowl, it's just as graceful. 

"Why not?"

"I think we have a fair chance at the Rift." Charles opens up his shields a fraction more, allowing Jean to dive deeper.

"Onslaught Exodus may be faster than any jaeger out there," Jean notes quietly, "But it's still one jaeger. And you can't even hold the Drift for longer than three hours."

"It's getting better." Nearly four now, at last count. "It'll get better." 

She allows him to reassure and calm her, and they link hands as they pick their way back through overcrowded streets, back towards the Shatterdome. Hong Kong seems subdued around them, likely expecting another K-event any minute, and there's a fatalistic touch to the minds around them. It's sobering, and Jean huddles closer as they get back to base. They hug at the berths, where all their jaegers are, and Charles nods at Mikula, the Russian telepath touching minds briefly with him before turning to speak quietly to a technician. 

Wade's perched high up on scaffolding, swinging down with almost prehensile grace to greet them as they round over towards the living quarters. Behind him, the sleek, refitted form of Deadpool Cable is being upgraded with hypersonic missiles, and if Charles squints, he can still see the familiar lines of Mystique Cerebro. He should feel a pang, but he doesn't, not with Onslaught Exodus in pride of place at the end of the berths. 

"You guys missed an epic bitchfest between Stark and Richards," Wade reports, grinning. "I think Stark's sulking right now, which makes him your problem, and just so you know, I kinda want him to keep working on my baby."

"I'll handle it," Jean offers, squeezing Charles' hand, and he'll be surprised at how quickly Jean and Wade take their leave if he hadn't felt Erik's presence coming out of the service lifts. Erik's irascible nature hasn't endeared him to the new teams, not that Erik cares, despite Charles' gentle attempts to get him to see things another way. As far as Erik's concerned, all the other co-pilot teams are cannon fodder, just there to clear their path.

Charles doesn't like this plan, but he isn't sure what else will work, and he's pensive as Erik draws him to his side with a hook of his arm, brushing a kiss against his mouth to chase the taste of his dinner, taking a deeper kiss when Charles curls a hand over the back of his skull. This is simple now, between them, natural, and perhaps the rest of it will come in time for the end of the world. 

"Did you stop the Marshalls from tearing into each other?" Charles murmurs, with a faint smile.

"Near thing," Erik concedes - almost a joke - and Charles tugs him closer, resting their foreheads together, the touch of Erik's mind like this fever-bright in its intensity as they share the sense-memories of their last two hours apart. 

Sometimes, Charles knows, Erik wakes up in the night caught in one of Charles' memories, whispering words spoken an age away on a lectern in Oxford. Sometimes Charles wakes up still dreaming that he's pretending to chase a little girl and her friends around a playground swing. The closeness of their minds should seem artificial, unhealthy, but Erik breathes out, at the exact moment that Charles does, and for a moment, the sync slides perfect, and Charles allows himself the luxury of hope. 

Tomorrow, they'll save the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ran out of creative energy, blah. also, didn't really feel like writing minor character death... which is what the pacific rim 'verse usually calls for... XD;;; Thanks for reading! And thanks to the peeps who gave ideas/inspiration/moral support. Hope you enjoyed the fic.

**Author's Note:**

> if you'll like to discuss ficbunnies, I'm @manic_intent on twitter - thanks for reading!


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